A Collection of Supernatural Short Stories
by Foolscapping
Summary: Everything under the sun here. Warnings in each story, though beware of sexual situations, suicidal themes, violence/gore, cursing, and so on — for mature readers. A hefty amount of Sam, with a slightly smaller but still hefty amount of Dean. Lots of other characters involved!
1. Anime Trivia Skills

It starts as a flippant remark, really. Some casual mention of some weird-ass hentai porn, because for some reason Dean thought it was a completely normal thing to do, to relate their weird water-monster case to an adult cartoon about — well, you know what. Sam's not exactly a prude, and he's been through torture above and beyond, but even Lucifer would find it all tasteless in the grand scheme of things. And it's a sad day in Hell when Sam can nod and agree with someone who manages to torment him sometimes, even long after the hallucinations.

"I'm just saying, man," Sam says, "There's better Japanese cartoons out there, you know. Though, knowing you, you probably would make a beeline straight for the ones where their boobs are the size of my friggin duffel bag."

Dean grins like an imp, that jackass. Leave it to him to be completely annoying while they're on good terms. He replies, "Not always, god. I like a little Sailor Moon sometimes. I mean, they kick alien asses on top of that fine… 2D animation."

Sam snorts; it's a petulant little brother snort. "… Dude, they're, like, fourteen."

"… Oh. Uh. _Well_. Cutie Honey, then." He swirls a finger at the hood, eyes on the road. "Swap it out, Cutie Honey all the way. Or, I don't know. That Devil Hunter Yohko chick is a teenager, too, isn't she? Because man, I've seen her rack a lot in that one. But the 1994 television series for Cutie Honey — whew. Go Nagai, he's a real piece of work."

He kind of doesn't expect Dean to actually pierce the depths of his weird pervy anime collection to actually start pulling names and dates. Like, seriously, he thought Dean just googles 'dirty cartoons' 99% of the time. "Are you seriously — wait, who?"

Dean glances at him from behind the wheel, and maybe for once he's starting to get that unneeded macho embarassment that he turns into some half-assed smirk. Of course, Sam doesn't particularly think it's a big deal that Dean enjoys a little Japanese anime history, but, well, Dean can be insecure sometimes about the weirdest things. Dean huffs, "You've never heard of Go Nagai? He practically _started_ the transforming girl genre, man. Pretty weak, Sammy. Brush up on your trivia skills."

" _My_ trivia skills?" An eyeroll only seems necessary. "No, you can win this round. Besides, I already outdid you naming off Pokemon."

" _Ugh_ , there's like — _five million_ of them. Nobody knows all five million, let alone even twenty or whatever. That's like knowing every stupid Yu-Gi-Oh card. You just need to know _Pikachu_ and, I don't know, _Charizard_."

Huh. Sam had some of those cards in high school. He doesn't even remember how he got into it, except that maybe he fit in more with that crowd than any other. Hard to recollect. After the Cage, Sam has had trouble revisiting certain little details; a smaller price in a pool of too many, all things considered. A silence looms over the Impala, and Sam resigns to the sound of the engine as it hums, and the wind as it ruffles up his untamed hair; he needs a haircut, and soon, before some vampire or something gets a solid grip on it. He at least stopped with the thick licks of puppy-bangs after missing a ghost floating down from his upward peripheral. That was a rough night, for sure. Though, despite Dean's digs at his 'heavenly mop', he's never really pushed for a haircut. Never like Dad used to; but then… Dad was Dad, and he always had something to say about the shaggy mat his son used to parade around with.

Out of the blue, Dean continues: "Bet you can't name all the Sailor Scouts."

"… Dean, they're all named after planets, it's not that hard."


	2. Have a Cone (Season 7)

**OOC:** S7 Fanfic; second person.

* * *

You wonder why they send another pair of investigators to speak with you. It's not like you were there, when Davie died. It's still such a miserable pang in your chest that the best option is to let your mind glaze over — thoughts are vicious and cruel, and you can't start crying at work, because crying won't pay bills. And it won't bring him back. It's easier to just pretend that you fall apart the moment your car door locks. Who cares if people driving sees you snot on yourself? They'll only catch a passing glance at the sad person in the car. And then you'll be out of their lives, thought of for only a moment.

 _Pull yourself together,_ you think. _What would Davie say if he saw this? Don't be this way. Fight back._ The thought is interrupted when the tall one wanders over to see you. It steals your breath a little, because the man is tall and his eyes are soft, and for a moment you think of what you've lost. What you can't get back. You rub a sore spot on your chest, wondering if the pain can permeate so much that it's physical.

"Sorry if I'm bothering you." He _is_ bothering you technically — you're working and you're sad, which are both horrible things to have together — but he seems sincere, and anyone who is sincere about Davie is okay with you. He also kind of… looks exhausted. Like, really, really exhausted, like he's dead on his feet. Maybe he's been having a lot of all-nighters as a — a what now? "I'm Collins, FBI. Could I ask you a few questions?"

Anything to help.

People say it looked like murder. Someone could have took him away from you. As you answer each question numbly, he nods and pays careful attention behind the counter. He's got a lovely sort of face, one that you feel like you can lay your truths on, all angles. Are all agents these days also doubling as models? It's just strange for someone who's involved in a scary Hollywood type of job, where men in suits are supposed to be relentlessly intimidating.

It's easy to act like a robot with the finer details at first. But by the time you're actually on the topic of Davie's family, your shoulders are hunched and the tears are threatening to slip away. "H-his family never… um. Saw eye-to-eye with him. They had a lot of issues." You wipe at your eyes, and he nods, absorbing the information. "Even worse, his mom is… kind of a wack-job. She has a lot of religious stuff in her house. Like… not even just one religion. Used to push a lot of random stuff on him."

Something in Agent Collin's eyes flicker — a moment of realization. You hold your breath, heart thudding in your chest. "Does that… Does that help?"

The man smiles, nodding. He slips his notepad back into his pocket. It's hot as _hell_ outside, and it's a good thing you work in a place full of ice-cream behind the counter, because it at least makes the summers more bearable. He says, "It does help. And I'm sorry again for your loss. Rest assured, we'll be doing everything we can for you and Davie."

The agent glances back toward the other man, the one in a suit as well, with the short, spiked hair. The guy is on his phone, looking very focused where he sits. The booths are a little empty right now, but that's how it is in a small town. You snap back into focus when you're offered a card. "If you need anything," Collins says, "If anything comes up regarding the case… just let us know."

You nod. Hesitant, you smile thinly. Red-eyed, but smiling at least.

"You want a scoop? I'll buy," you say quickly, and he seems completely thrown off by the offer. It makes you wonder how often he's actually given things, just for the hell of it. He seems more like the kind of person who expects himself to give to everyone else. Call it an educated hunch. "You look tired, is all. And it's hot as balls out there. Here."

You hold out a chocolate-dipped vanilla cone.

He laughs quietly, but it's a pleasant sound.

"You sure?"

"Of course. It's just… This was Davie's favorite. Everyone should enjoy what he did. I know that's super corny, but…" Agent Collins takes the cone, glancing between it and you. He seens kind of humbled that it's him getting it. It's just a cone, really. Just a cone. "You kind of seemed stressed. Outside. Um. I was watching. Sorry."

He seems surprised by the admittance. "It's been a tough few weeks. Federal stuff."

You manage a grin. "Right, right. Me, too. All these ice-cream scooping feelings. Overwhelming."

Giving you a long, assessing stare, his lips curl into a coy smile. "Right."

Though, the look doesn't last long. His eyes scan over your shoulder, and the pleasant expression melts into something despondent and blank. It's sort of kind of scary to see it, and you have to look over your shoulder out of fear that maybe someone's sneaking up on you or something. Like a ghost. Or a monster. Your mind is over-active. When you glance back he's rubbing a thumb against the inside of his palm, the one holding the cone. But the chocolate is sort of getting soft in the heat already.

You clear your throat, torn between anxious and concerned.

"Right. Uuh… but — it's melting, so."

You motion to the drip of ice-cream, and the man makes a funny little noise of surprise, moving his hand to catch the fleeing vanilla drop with his other hand. It's a swift motion, as you pluck up some napkins and reach over to help him control the beast that is his cone. At least he's back in reality there. "Sorry, I — thanks. Thank you."

"Nah, it's fine! It's not my hand getting ice-cream on it. You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, no, I'm okay. Sorry. Tough few weeks. Rough nights." He clears his throat. "I should go give my partner the heads up, share notes. We'll be around. Hang in there, okay? We'll keep in touch if we can think of anything else that could help the case."

You reply, "I'd like that, agent."

He leaves with a short and polite goodbye, and you can see the two men retreat to a car that doesn't at all look that official; looks kind of old, actually, like it belongs in a car show. Agent Collins takes a gigantic bite off the top of the ice-cream, pinching his eyes shut at the brain freeze he's forced upon himself as he gives the other man the rest of the cone. The shorter one looks like he's just won the lottery, and laughs, a happy mime beyond the thick store glass. Jeez. Were they even really agents? They look like a pair of dumb teenagers coming in for a triple-scoop to start the weekend. It's good to see Collins' face split into a grin, though. He's got dimples. They're nice.

They hop into the Impala, Collins bowing his head low to fit, and before they leave, you catch his eyes again and he throws you a small wave from out the window. You wipe at your eyes, waving back. And then you start cleaning the counter, shoulders lighter; everything is one step at a time. Get through this day. Just gotta get through it.

Keep on hanging in there.


	3. Checking Out (10x18 coda)

**OOC:** TAKES PLACE SOMETIME AFTER 10X18. A little coda to help get into Sam's mind, and why he feels and does what he does.

* * *

They aren't having a good week. Not after the book burning thing. Not after Dean's been brushing off Sam's attempts to talk about it all.

Sue him, he doesn't wanna fucking talk about it.

"Let's spar."

Dean's in the middle of scrolling through news articles on recent animal maulings or strange murders when Sam says it, body taut with some sort of anxiousness and offense that makes the Mark thrum very faintly on his arm; Dean doesn't want Sam to know, but sometimes Sam says something snappish or tightens his jaw a certain way, and Dean can feel the hum of bloodthirst, faint, faint, like the crackle of nerve endings in the back of someone's neck. It's nothing he can't handle, though. Sam just stares at him like he knows something Dean doesn't.

The moves are fluid, and they both stay on their game, dodging left and right, Dean compensating for Sam's arm-length and speed and Sam compensating for Dean's heavier muscle and tolerance for punches. Eventually Dean zones out and has Sam pinned under him, fist spackled with blood. Sam's got a split lip and Dean freezes, and then Sam flips him over onto his back and pins him instead. It's only then that Dean realizes why Sam did this, why he was silently rigid earlier. He's quietly afraid; it's in the back of his eyes, a hunter's trait to handle the fear. Because it's stupid not to fear what's out there. You just have to manage it.

Which is what Sam's doing now. He puts his knee on Dean's chest and holds him tight to the spot, red plip-plopping on his Led Zeppelin shirt.

"You see this?" Sam pants, anger burning with the fear. "This is just us, you and me. What's gonna happen when it's not you, Dean?"

"Shut up," he huffs, trying to shove Sam off, the Mark thrumming even more loudly. Sam doesn't budge. "Shut up, Sam, you think I don't get it — "

"You fucking don't! You don't get how unfair you're being!" Sam's voice crackles, power behind it. Sam's always had a strong voice. Deep and commanding if he ever used it more often for that sort of thing. He's a lot different from Dad and Dean, in that respect. Always with the soft. Now he looks intimidating, even if he's all angles and bony and needing to actually eat some fucking sandwiches. Has he always been this scrawny? "Your solution to losing to the Mark is fucking unfair."

"Don't you even tell me about unfair, after how you acted back — "

"No, _you_ listen," Sam spits. "If we don't fix you, what do you think's gonna happen? You're gonna turn, Dean, and me and Cas and Charlie, everyone around you, they'll be targets. You almost smashed my head in with a hammer last time, and now you're talking about it like you expect me to just chain you up for an eternity? How is any of that fair? No," Sam continues, and cuts him off. "No, you didn't think of what it was like fixing you the first time, Dean. You didn't think of what you could do the second time around. I can't kill you. And apparently I can't cure you, not for very long."

He finally shoves off Dean, turning his back to him. He wipes the blood off his upper lip.

"I can't… That's not even the most unfair part."

Dean sighs, sitting up silently. "Sam, what? What do you want from me? Do you want me to admit I fucked up? Look, _maybe_ we shouldn't have burned the book, but I'm not gonna let something shitty happen because of that thing. We're already up the creek here, and if something goes south—"

"Like what?" Sam says quietly. "Like turning into a demon? Like killing people, Dean? Living for centuries until you become Cain?"

Dean glares, but it's an aborted gesture, because he suddenly feels tired. And guilty, maybe. He doesn't fucking know. Okay, so maybe leaving Sam to clean up after the Mark would be fucked up. Maybe that's a crossed line in and of itself, expecting that from his brother. Because Dean wasn't willing to do that himself, either, back when the tables were turned. He closes his eyes and holds up his hands. "I get it. Fine."

"No." Sam rubs his eyes, standing up. Ready to leave. Always ready to find an escape. He rubs his arm, though, and looks completely lost in his own home for a moment. "It's not fair, because you kept me in this place — you're the one who said my reason for being alive was to help you fight. And you throw that shit back in my face, because I wasn't willing to shove an angel down your throat… But now suddenly, after all that, after bringing me back to this… you just check out? What reason will I have to be alive _then_? This is what I have now. I couldn't have a normal life, and I couldn't die, so I have this. And I have to…"

"… Sam." Dean stops there, because the word is like a roadblock. He doesn't want to think about all this. He doesn't want to face this. He wants Sam to just accept that he's gonna crash and burn and… well, it's not like that all doesn't make sense to him, because now it does, and he doesn't want to face it. He knows he's a coward when it comes to these talks. He knows he skirts around them. He knows, he knows, he knows. "Just — you're tired. Go get some sleep. You've been cashing in how many hours?"

Sam shrugs, licking his swollen lip, neither of them willing to mention how easily it had gotten there.

They part ways, Dean all too aware he's left Sam's bowl empty in the exchange.

* * *

Later in the night, Sam lays awake, listening to the sounds of Dean screaming for him.


	4. A Jog with Sam Winchester

**OOC:** Takes place pre-Oz, when Charlie is considering hunting and stuff.

* * *

Charlie seriously super regrets every life choice, like, ever. Ever. More than that time she tried to kiss that one cosplayer in Chicago and she ended up nearly poking her eye out with her character gear. Like. That kind of regret. She's not exactly the most active person ever — being a nerdy computer geek sort of makes exercise a real pain in the booty — but she would have thought going on a jog for anything other than battle would have been only partly horrible (running just to run? she weeps).

And yeah no, going on a legit jog with Sam Winchester is like trying to chase down a rabid gazelle, with, uh, lucious locks. It's those legs. She wishes she had giraffe legs. Maybe then she could outrun all the monsters that she mostly accidentally bumps into.

"Omygod, can we just — " she pants, coming to a stop. Sam does this little thing up ahead where he double-takes to her wilting pink-and-green form and jogs in place for a moment until he's sure she's out of steam, and then briskly runs over to her side with a small bobbing ponytail to match her own (twinsies). "You are seriously levels above me here."

Sam laughs, giving her the space to recoop. "Not a fan of running?"

"Not a fan of being sweaty and achy. And in motion in general." She jack knifes back open into a straight stance. "You're a pro, though. It's a hunter thing, huh?"

Sam just shakes his head, amused. "No, not really. Dean hates running; this is a, uh… a Sam thing, I guess." Sam is one of those nice guys who just walks and waits for Charlie to pick up the pace again, which is cool, because Charlie wouldn't have been looking forward to a drill sergeant. She just wanted to learn how to be an effective hunter — which, go figure, Dean just circumvents all that.

"I would have thought you guys do it to stay… y'know. Fit. The only reason anyone should ever exercise?" And yeah, that's totes exaggeration. Just a bit. Sam shrugs, wiping his sweaty face and looking super pleased.

"I run because it… I don't know. Makes me feel like I can stay a step ahead of everything? Or — just to feel better about myself, who I am, all that."

Charlie grins and replies, "Dude, you're a bona fide hero of a story and stuff. And you save people, hunt things, all of that. You should already feel great about yourself." And yet when she looks over to him, he looks caught off guard, frowning a little at the distance. She clears her throat. "I mean, even if you feel like… Look. I think you're pretty awesome, okay? So if you're worried about who you are, don't."

She turns and points at him, winking.

" You're freaking awesome, Winchester. Even if you don't see it. And being some crazy star runner just makes you even more awesome. So whatevs, man, I'll just remind you you're a cool guy until you maybe believe it."

Sam's mouth opens slightly like he wants to say something, and then he grins.

"Thanks," he says, rubbing the back of his head.

Score one for Charlie, she's flustering a Winchester.

"No problem! Got to look after my boys. You wanna race to the end?" Sam perks immediately at the question, like it's something that he enjoys a hella lot, racing people. She can see why; he's always gonna win, the jerk.

"Sure, yeah. You sure?"

"Toootally — but lemme help you out here." She crouches down at his feet, and he looks down in puzzlement as she works on his something with his shoe. "Your shoelaces are untied. Too busy getting all heavy back there with the bro talks, right?"

— and then she takes off like a bat out of hell down the path.

"Hey!" Sam huffs, trying not to smile as he nearly falls over in his pursuit. The laces on both feet are tied together, because she's crafty when she has to be and it may be her only shot at ever outrunning Sam Winchester, let's be real. She squawks a sound that's crossed between a laugh and a shout when the tall hunter ends up running up beside her in his socks.

"Awww, what! Cheater!" she wheezes.

"Wha'?! Says you!" he wheezes back, voice high with indignation.

It's probably the funniest thing she'll ever see from him, but who knows. Maybe he's goofier than even she anticipated. He looks about a century younger by the time they're nearly crashing into the bunker.


	5. Lock the Front Door (MadisonSam AU)

**OOC:** This is a weird little AU where Sam quits the Trials post-S8, but instead of spiraling into death he's simply not in shape enough to hunt anymore (so you get hot!sickly!Sam don't judge me). He retires and goes back to school; obviously, Madison _not_ being a super!dead werewolf is also AU'd, and she is a fellow teacher. YOU'RE GONNA JUST HAVE TO ACCEPT MY CONVULTED AU LEANINGS. Also I am totally unfamiliar with school and college from a teacher perspective forgive me. Also mentions of not-actually-self-harm, just FYI. 

* * *

Madison sits calmly at the diner with a pen at her teeth and a laptop in front of her, getting herself lost and distracted by the hum of conversation and the smell of coffee beans; she loves this place, enjoys the sort of isolated _togetherness_ , if that at all makes sense, even if her guard is always up (because when it comes to matters of restraining orders, it still pays to be _watchful_ ). It's 4:30 and she still hasn't even breached the bulk of reading through the whirlwind of essays and Q&A's that her students are too certain are concocted simply as torture.

Maybe if she hadn't caught sight of a familiar hulking figure in her peripheral, she would have had a better chance at being professional today. Someone's ordering a coffee — someone who's mane you could spot from pretty far away. She couldn't help but smile at the thought, watching the oh-so-familiar man step aside, fiddle with his vest and coat as he anticipated the caffeine. Lately, she's kept her distance from any new faces — Kurt is still a bitter memory that is certainly not that old — but Professor Winchester has been an earnest guy, out of the way, thoughtful and focused on his work. He'd been invited to a few special occasions in their little network, what with him being this mysterious new guy, though he had always seemed to shrink back and walk into whatever little abode he had somewhere out there, huddled in his own personal quietness. However, Madison had taken a liking to him too quickly. He was a good listener, and when she caught him here, she couldn't help but give him a bit of a hard time.

" _Professor_ Winchester," she spoke up, eyebrows raised. "Hope you're not playing hooky from your work."

He turns in a half-circle, confusion blossoming into something in-between coyness and relief.

"Madison, hey."

"Sam."

First name basis happened a few months back, and she has to admit, he says her name in a way that makes her happy to have been here at the same time as him. She nods as he hesitates next to her table, which seems to be enough of a silent message for him as he quickly slides into the booth opposite of her. Of course, she's already scanning him over, taking in his complexion for the day: a bit pale, dark around the eyes behind his glasses, but quick and bright-eyed. It's a good day today, and she breathes a little easy for him as he fidgets with his wallet. Hadn't quite put it back yet. It's full of business cards and… old pictures, she thinks? She can see the plastic of picture holders.

"How're you doing today?" she's quick to ask, and he smiles a bit.

"I'm good. Doing _really_ good, actually. Everyone in the classroom actually listened to me today." That definitely earns a laugh while she closes her laptop, because she can imagine why some of them weren't paying attention to the actual lesson itself. Sam motions to her work as she sets it aside. "You sure you're not busy? I don't want to distract you, or anything."

"I'm distracted whether you're here or not," she says warmly. "This place sometimes gets me less focused than I was coming in, but I can't help it. Actually… I was a little worried. I heard you had to cancel the class on yesterday after what happened Tuesday. Your kids were all concerned." He looks down just as she says it, and she feels guilty; really, it's probably not always so good to mention that he's not feeling well. She'd get tired of hearing it, regardless of intentions, so she puts her hand up in surrender. "I'm sorry. I know that's probably something you'd rather not — Sorry."

"No, it's fine," he says with the shake of his head. His eyes are green, green and gray and maybe kind of blue. She's a bit lost in them. He adjusts his glasses (he had admitted his vision had gotten bad a few years ago), snapping her out of that short-lived trance. "You know me, huh? Didn't mean to worry anyone." He stops, looks up to the worker as they deliver him his usual, and offers a quick thanks before he takes the mug in his hands. "Sometimes my lungs get… Allergies and asthma and all that. I wasn't in the hospital or anything."

"Sounds rough," she says. _Rough like his hand_ , she thinks. One of the palms has a big, gnarled scar on it. He must've been pretty active as a young guy, maybe. Or maybe it was self-inflicted… She already worries a lot about it. She'd seen his forearms before by chance, only to be drawn to very, very faint scar marks going across the tops. They didn't look like he had been trying to actively kill himself, but it was still concerning. Did he hurt himself a lot before he started school? Was it because he was sickly? She wasn't sure. "I'm glad you're alright. But you know what would be even more alright?"

He's in mid-sip, his eyebrows high on his forehead. "Mm?"

"If you went out and and lunch with me," she says, quick with it. "Like, just you and me. I've had lunch with everyone but you, you know."

"I'm not really…" he starts, but hesitates.

"It's okay if you don't want to, but… you're kinda always off on your own, you know?" Her lips quirk as she gives him her best smile. Maybe it works, because he looks a bit caught off-guard. "Do you have anyone to talk to around here? It's good to have a support system. You're a new teacher, too, so if you ever need any advice or help, I'm always here to speak with. Or… I don't know. I would just hate to not offer it. When I was going through a hard time, the others on campus, they were kind of… my pillar. Support."

"Your divorce," Sam says, like he's listing off facts, and then he's turning pink in the face as her expression slides into surprised confusion. "I — crap, I'm sorry. That's not something you just… I overheard."

But she just laughs, high and happy. "I guess we both suck at conversation. Look at all the landmines we're stepping on."

The conversations are peaceful, though. They meet a few times like this for a few months, until it becomes a schedule; it sort of evolves into something more personal — quieted voices, whispers and soft tones in small restaurants. Madison tells him about Kurt, about all that grief and how it's still a difficult situation. Sam talks about feeling guilty all the time, about letting his brother down and getting the way he is, how he's unable to do what he used to. She prods him to call his brother, and Sam prods her to tell him if there's _any_ trouble at all with her ex-husband. And it's nice, you know? It's wonderful. There are some days where he's too sick and she's on her own — and fretting. Fretting until she finally bites the bullet and stops by his small home with some soup, looks up at him as he answers the door with a pink nose and a handkerchief in his hands and messy hair. And she's watching him gratefully sip on soup, watches him get happily embarrassed by the visitation — and by her seeing his scarily clean and efficient set-up. Watches him nod off and snap back to attention.

And oh, god, she's smitten with him.

And oh god help her, she's leaning over and kissing him on the cheek.

And he's got this surprised, dazed look, like maybe this was all a fever dream.

The next time she's over, just a few days after, his face is a bit more colored and he's kissing her first — with her face in his hands, like he's been waiting for her to appear at his front door again since the last time.

… She's not sure what's happening after _that_ , but she's at _least_ coherent enough to lock the front door.


	6. Survivor (10x03 dark AU)

**OOC:** AU of 10x03, warnings for gore and body horror.

* * *

It's not like Sam's unused to pain. It's not like Sam hasn't been pulled apart many, many, many times. It's just — when you're alive, it's different. Different sensations, a whole different breed of pain. Honestly, Sam had gotten so used to what the Cage felt like, he had a hard time adjusting at first. It definitely didn't hurt _as_ bad, now that he's gotten his head figured out. In the real world, it felt like something was missing, when he got hurt. Some vital piece just _wasn't_ there to make it true misery. These sort of thoughts are what keep his time, laying crumpled in a heap in the middle of the bunker's dungeon. He twitches like a wilted bug, trying to force blood-crusted eyes open. His head hurts. Why does it hurt, again? He wishes he could remember.

The floor somehow manages to see-saw as he squints, even though he's not upright. He's staring at his fingers, his hand, his arm; he tries to move them — wills his fingers to react — but they're still, bloodless, shaped like feeble claws. Pain flares in his shoulder, radiating hot and sharp. There. That's the living pain. That's the proof that he's up top. His vision sharpens into focus and he remembers a little bit of what happened. The arm is too far away from him. It's his, but it's too far away to be his. He sucks in a strangled breath as his eyes fall on the end of the arm. A gory stump where it used to be attached to his shoulder.

Don't freak out. Don't panic. Don't. Don't.

He rolls himself pathetically to the shoulder that still has its arm attached, the limb weak, too weak, but he manages to lean his weight on it and pick his head up. Breathe in, breathe out, don't vomit, don't hyperventilate. He should have bled out. Right? Dean must've — the demon that his brother turned into, he must've cauterized it. Should've been more blood on the floor, if he hadn't. He cranes his head to look at the spot.

Against his better wishes, he throws up mostly bile on the floor.

Okay.

 _Okay, Sammy,_ he hears Dean say. He's insane, has had voices like that ever since Hell. Dean's voice is the ultimate judgement, the one with the plan, the one that struggles against Sam's very nature. _Sammy, don't pass out._ Roll over, check yourself. _Any weapons? Anything you can use? Get the fuck up, man._

" _You_ were supposed to be the one with the plan," Sam growls, shaking from shock. " _You_ tell me what to do. You're the one who wanted me here." He rolls onto his back and feels his face with his hand, flinching at the feel of what could be his skull. The skin's split away from the side of his head, just enough. Something ricocheted off it. That's why his bell was so rung, why his focus is so wrung out. _Hammer,_ Dean's voice helpfully supplies. Sam swallows and closes his eyes. Yeah. Hammer. _You gonna save me or what, Sammy? Because you know I don't have any faith in you actually doin' it._

"Shut up," Sam hisses. His willpower must be charged by his stubbornly rising anger; he drags himself to his knees and sways there, chin nearly touching his chest. The place is dark, with one swaying light. And pretty bare. There's the chair that he had tied Dean down in, and — his arm. Too far gone to reattach, not that it was ever a possibility in Sam's mind. He drags himself toward the door, relieved to find a lot of materials still littering the shelves. He practically slams into them, his weight too much to hold for long — legs are jelly, won't listen. Shakes his head. Feels time passing by slowly. Minutes tick by. He breathes in and out again. Missing his arm. Skull. Hammer. Dean.

He collects some ingredients with the reassurance that he had memorized the vials properly. Photographic memory. Dabbled in witch craft enough. It's blurry, but it's there. Doesn't take long before he manages to get the front door blown wide open, and he knows he has to move fast; he uses the wall as support, uncoordinated but in motion as he paws along the cold surface with his good arm.

"Is that my boy, getting up from his beauty nap?" Dean's voice echoes, cold and unfeeling.

Sam hears footsteps bouncing around, far down the path behind him, and he tries to will his legs to move faster. He couldn't afford to be captured, because it meant torture, more torture and more blood and Dean's voice and Dean's knife. Tears fill his eyes at the now vicious throbbing where his limb used to be. He's not sure how he can function without both. He's not sure how a hunter can get through life with one arm. He doesn't want to cure Dean and have him see _this_. His mutilated little brother. _Move, Sammy, I'm almost there. You got to move._

"S'not… you…" he whispers in a ragged voice.

"Come on, Sam, this is a snail's race. You can't get out in time. I've got the doors locked down; it's just _you_ and _me_."

Breathe in, breathe out. Hearing is tinny. Everything's tinny.

World's got to stop spinning.

He falls against the bottom steps that lead into the main hall, screaming in agony when his shoulder plows right into the concrete. Blood drips in straight lines, sliding down and over the edges in small, gruesome waterfalls. And Sam pants and pants, air feeling sour the moment he draws it in. Bad air. Sweat drips into his eyes. His muscles lock as he moves inch by inch over each squared hurdle. Footfalls are just down the hall. He's lost too much blood, he's lost, he's _lost_.

"Dean," he rasps, "Dean, don't. Don't. _Dean_."

 _I'm sorry, Sam,_ Dean's voice says, soft.

"I know you'll be. I know. Please — don't."

But suddenly fingers curl in his hair from beside him, gripping tight as he's _draaagged_ , his legs thumping on each step, his bloody shoulder grinding into the floor. He screams weakly while reaching up and groping sluggishly at Dean's hand holding tightly to his shaggy hair. He's only offered a snort as the demon shakes him by the head, throws Sam's free hand loose again to slap the floor.

"You and me against the world, Sam. Aww, you and me," Dean coos mockingly.

He pulls Sam up with his supernatural strength and slams him down on the table. Sam's ear is pressed over a map, and there's blood from his head wound spotting it with red polka dots. Breathe in, breathe out, chokes, lungs burn. Dean flips him over and wraps his hands around Sam's throat and squeezes. Hovers over him and pushes his thumbs against Sam's windpipe. Black curtains are closing in the corners of his eyes, and _Dean's_ eyes, well, they're black. Of course they are.

"We'll have a _grand_ ol' time — "

"Sam!"

 _Cas—?_

Dean turns toward the front door, eyes widened, and there's a blast of white light that eats up everything. And then everything is black, and Sam fears for a less-than-sane moment that he's lost in Dean's eyes.

He floats for a while, the pain ebbing away and coming back, like waves on jagged, bony rocks. There's Dean's voice, and it's rugged and low and how it's _supposed_ to be, and then there's Castiel's, whispering but firm. A hand curls around his wrist. Checks a pulse there. Life knocks against the walls of his veins, a consistent thudding. Something pinches at his head, water runs down his throat, and it carries something that makes him float longer, easier. Cold on his forehead. Soft cotton on his chest. He's dead weight when he turns over, face against softness. _Pillow_. He moans and tries to wake up. Wake up, wake up, _wake up_.

"It's… It's gonna — be okay, Sam," Dean says, but it sounds like he doesn't believe it. A hand smooths back the hair tickling his nose. Then two fingers press the wound on his scalp, and he feels the _heat_ , the sensation of skin mending. A voice — Castiel's voice, hollowed and distant as though stuck in a rotting tree log — says that it's all he can do for now. When Sam hears a faraway apology beyond the black expanse, he breathes a sigh and sinks back into the covers. Dean's _alive_. Sam can rest. Somewhere the dark, deep recesses of Sam's mind, Lucifer looks over at Sam and throws up his hands flippantly.

 _Who says you need two arms, anyway?_


	7. Damning (RubySam)

**OOC:** Pre-S4 with some sexual content, because I am shipper trash who enjoys horrible relationships that involves shipper-trash-sex.

* * *

The fight is short and sweet, and ends with a vessel puking their guts out because before Sam had exorcised the demon from them, they'd been skinning a man alive; somewhere in her crippled heart Ruby pities them, though part of her wonders if it would just have been easier to damn the man to hell and get him twisted and turned. At least it's easier than feeling what he's probably feeling, what he's gonna deal with until he's dead. He's probably gonna be fucked up in the head… but it doesn't matter now. Against Sam's wheezing request to stay, Ruby slings his arm over her much more petite shoulders, a trick to the eye. Sam's lightweight in her supernatural grasp.

"Stop squirming," she grumbles. He makes a frustrated noise, blood dripping down his chest and lip. It's not life-threatening, she's pretty sure. Just hurts like a bitch and a half, and will need stitches. Stupid fleshy human body, all muscle but so easy to break. She gets him all the way back to the run-down shack they've holed up in, dumping him a little less kindly on the mattress before hesitating and softly setting him against the pillow there. He's completely lucid at least, the pain subsided enough to breath easier. Gray-green eyes flick up to look at her as she crawls up to stradle his hips, and the furrowed brow makes her roll her eyes.

"Now's not — "

"Calm down, Romeo. I'm just getting to that ugly cut across your chest. Unless you're calling me fat, which is insulting the meatsuit more than anything." The sass gets her a childish snort in response, but it's not him flipping her off him, so she rips his shirt all the way open and starts to quietly mend the ragged flesh back together again.

"Should I be calling you Doctor Ruby?"

"If that's something you're into, weirdo."

Sam makes a soft humming noise. "Depends on if you're a shitty stitcher."

Something about this moment appeals to Ruby's nature: the silence, the wreckage of a home, the way their breaths are mingling together; Sam's mouth smells like blood, and she reaches over once she's done and runs the pad of her thumb over the oozing cut on his lip. He flinches, his gaze focused on her face, and she wonders what he sees there. Probably something a lot prettier than the disfigured creation underneath. She likes that about Sam; he doesn't shoot straight for the darker things. Always finding the 'good'. Fervently digging into the chasm of his own ribcage, trying to maneuver around stringy lines of black to find the polished gem inside himself. Between that and the power he's got in his hands, he'd be a good overlord. She leans in and kisses the wound, and his mouth parts reluctantly back — and then she laps her tongue over the wound, coppery blood on her taste buds.

He pulls back, eyes wide and rounder, hair a mess in his face.

She shrugs, smiling. "What? You're the only one who gets to have a little blood around here?" Then she leans back in and bites, soft as he hisses against her ear, and yeah, something under the cleft of her ass, under his denim jeans, is swelling. It makes her heart flutter with some twisted sort of warmth; this is romantic, as far as a demon's mind is concerned. She's learned to value the screwed up logic. "Oh," she purrs, running her hands over his hair. "You're _definitely_ a freak in the sheets, Sam. Didn't know you were into pain."

"Shut up," he mumbles half-heartedly, groaning when she shifts.

She unzips him and they have a slow time of it in the dark, and by the time they're done and Sam's laying back all the way against the mattress, his chest wound is dotted with new blood — but stitches are holding strong. Still, as hot as Sam's being right now, he's sweating and still hurting, so she delves deep into her crumpled soul for a little compassion and finds it, gives him a nice dose of pain pills and lets him sink more into a lethargic drug-fueled rest. His eyes flutter, thin lips parted as she dabs away the blood on his chin.

His eyes close softly, looking much younger.

"Love you," he breathes, and she freezes, her stomach dropping slightly. But he's out like a light now, and she can only lean her cheek on her palm and watch him with a piked curiosity.

"You're such a sap, it's not fair. When demons try to do it, they're just _creepy_. But you sure know how to pull that card." She runs her hand over his hair again, leaning over him like a creature protecting its young. "You'll forgive me. You and me, we'll be unstoppable. You'll be like a god, you know. I'll make sure you get there, no problem."

A kiss on the cheek. It's _damning_. He's marked for greatness.

She loves the thrill of it.

"You can count on me, Sammy."


	8. It's Not a Baby, It's a Timebomb

**OOC:** Warnings for attempted suicide (murder?), self-hate, negative thoughts and suicidal thoughts, lack of self-worth things, suicidal ideation, BEWARE IS A HEAVIER FIC WITH SAD THOUGHTS.

* * *

It's strange, how well he remembers a place he hadn't been to since he was six months old. But his old room is all too familiar — the mobile, the clock on the wall, the blue tint that hasn't gone orange yet.

He was stuck. Stranded back in time, in some familiar pocket of universe; the idea to return to this place hadn't even necessarily been his own. It had been more-so from the lips of a god, one who had rolled his eyes and spoke with wry annoyance at even the appearance of a Winchester in his day. _It would have been so much easier if you had died._ That's what he'd said. _Why here? Why now?_ Sam had tried to comprehend it. He'd been a fan of _It's a Wonderful Life_ , and isn't this just the very opposite of that tale? Where's his Clarence? Because he could use Cas right about now. Then again, maybe he didn't deserve divine intervention; maybe this is just what he needed, after seeing all those glimpses of the future —

 _— watching his mother laughing, sun in her hair, smiling and alive; there's Dean, all freckles and vibrant energy, nothing like the silent and sometimes cold kid Sam remembers, who would watch him like a guard, a hawk, protective but distant, supportive at some of those times where things felt too heavy. Dad… Dad is happy. He doesn't look like he smells of alcohol and corpse-fueled smoke. He's carrying Dean on his shoulders, helping him across the monkey bars, and Dean looks loved, and Mary looks loved, and John looks loved — and Sam is not there —_

 _ **It would have been so much easier if you had died.**_

Sam flinches as if struck by the memory, leaning over the sleeping infant in the crib. He's a cute kid, all fat and content, fingers curled up close to his mouth. This would be _Sammy_ , the old face that received the name, that deserved it. There are days long since the apocalypse where Sam thinks it's a good name to have, that he and this child are synonymous, the same. Other days… Sam wonders just how much of him is in this room. How much of him had been chipped away all these years. How much even survived the night of the fire.

 _— Sam wasn't alive in the world he'd visited before this one, where Jess had been preparing for a wedding, nervous and blushing. Sam stood there, gobsmacked by the world he was dropped into; had complimented her dress as she'd left the church, and she had thanked him, despite him being a stranger among the throng of people. A dead man. She got into a car, her hand clasped in someone other than Sam's, which was how it should've been; should have never been his; her mother and father are crying tears of joy, and there are no black umbrellas, no black suits or coffins and tombstones, no nightmares about the smell of burnt flesh, just Jessia, alive, happy —_

His hands slowly drift, hovering over the baby's softly exhaling chest.

 _It would have been so much easier —_

It's a lie, it has to be. The god's just trying to destroy him in the most painful way he knows how. Sam dying wouldn't have fixed _anything_. Bad things would have happened: his family was still cursed under Azazel's watchful stare, and angels still missed their father. Nothing. _Changes_. And yet he's seen Jody watching her son graduate with her husband by her side, and he'd seen Ellen and Jo working at their bar, older but content; he saw Bobby squabbling at Garth, and Cas as an angel, _different_ but more _whole_ than he's been in a long time… no longer lost, no longer trying to find his way.

And then there's _Dean_ —

 _— smiling brightly, going to an old rock concert with a couple of friends and a pretty girl next to him; has the windows down and he's just cruising, letting the Impala rumble and hum around him, the summer sky bright and warm, and everyone's laughing, putting their feet up and talking about music, music and cars, because Dean still can't help but love it all, and Dean's just happy to be there and living —_

And Sam… is not there.

He puts his hands over the baby's throat, gritting his teeth, temples throbbing with pain.

 _Boy-king, abomination, freak. Shitty brother, blood junkie, leaving a trail of dead lovers in his wake, needing a chaperon, failing every single thing that mattered. Murderer. Nutcase. Meat suit. Monster. Monster. Monster._

 ** _it's not a baby it's a time-bomb, it's not a baby it's a time-bomb,_** ** _it's not a baby it's a time-bomb —_**

He squeezes slightly, but he can't get his fingers to wrap around his throat hard enough, because the baby is just a _baby_ , and he couldn't — it's barely even _him_ , it's better than _him_ , always will be _better_ than him. He's shaking, convulsively almost, with tears dripping down his face. The baby stirs, looking back at him with eyes that haven't quite found their final color. He rasps, "It'd be easier this way. There's just a sliver of a chance for things to be okay, and I need to… I just — we're so fucked up later, and I don't know how else to fix this. Maybe he's right. Maybe it'd be easier…"

He feels fucking pathetic, but he _can't_. He couldn't…

"I can't do it," he chokes out, while Sammy makes a gurgling little sound of contentment. The small hand curls around one of his fingers and Sam leans his head against the railing, trying to control himself, breathing in and out, trying not to lose it here and now — and then there's a noise behind him (wood creaking underfoot, bare feet patting), and he whirls around, eyes wide, his silhouette no doubt intimidating.

It's Dean.

It's Dean with that little funny bowl cut, wearing his pajamas and holding a small teddy bear under his arm. He's staring silently at the looming figure before him — judging, calm, certain — and all Sam can do is step away from the crib, his hands raised slightly. "I'm sorry," he manages, eyes red as he backs away toward the wall. "I'm sorry, I'm leaving. I was… just going to leave. I'm sorry."

He really is. For so many things.

Dean looks him over for a moment more before wandering quickly passed him, putting himself between _Sam_ and _Sammy_ , blocking him from coming back over to the bed. Protecting him. Sam stutters on a breath, but leaves the room; keeps going, until he's in the doorway outside of the nursery while Dean's climbing into the crib like he's done it more than once, ever-watchful as he sits with his brother. He doesn't stop watching after Sam until he's in the hallway, and Sam can hear his brother's small voice say, "It's okay, Sammy. It'll be okay."

Everything's spinning.

He turns, and John's got a gun aimed at him, yelling for Mary to grab the boys as he fires. Each shot is a small, sharp punch, and he falls and keeps falling. Never stops falling. _It'll be okay, Sammy. It'll be okay._ Castiel's wings flap, encase him, mangled but somehow still carrying him, and they're moving _up, up_ — _"I've got you, Sam, hang on…!"_ And then suddenly Sam is lying in cold, wet grass, unsure of how he got there. Dean and Cas are hovering over him, brows pinched with concern, hands pawing at his torn, slightly bloodied shirt (— _bullet holes from his father, interesting to think about, isn't it, Sam?_ ). Castiel's voice drifts through the air. "He'd been shot… I've healed those wounds… found him years ago… in the past…"

They take note of Sam's lucidity, and lean in. Dean's breath smells like onions from the last diner meal they'd had, and Sam tries pathetically to push him back, even if his arms feel like jelly.

"You alright, Sam?" Dean puts his hand on Sam's expanding chest. Sam blinks back tears and nods, and it's one of the biggest lies of his life. But he curls his hand around Dean's, his brother's confused face melting into blackness. He's too tired to be here right now. He's _exhausted_.

Sam'll pretend everything's okay when he wakes up.


	9. I Think I Have a Concussion (Season 1)

**OOC:** This one takes place in S1, because I could really use from S1 babies.

* * *

The sound of a skull hitting the side of a car door at break-neck speeds isn't exactly the best sound in the world to Dean's ears, but he'd have preferred it not be his brother doing the skull-thumping. For a moment his insides are ice-cold, and he wonders if this at all is what it's like to feel like a ghost — because Sam just crumples like a over-sized doll, a plaything to someone else, with no consideration for its parts. The junkyard is eerily silent for a split moment before Dean is unfrozen, focused long enough to fire a round of rock salt into the misty figure in the air.

Then he lunges, scooping up the lighter Sam had dropped when he was so brutally flung. Before he can even get his thoughts coherently sorted, there are bones blazing up and the ghost is screaming with a wide, gaping mouth. Then it's gone. And Sam is not budging an inch, all sprawled, lanky limbs and wild locks that are curled in sweat on his forehead. His eyes are open — just _open_ , staring at _nothing_ , and Dean nearly screams, because Sam looks dead, he's broken his fucking neck and he's dead, oh fuck, _oh no, no_ —

He collapses next to him as he flips him over with his hands keeping his neck as straight as possible. It's too much like a corpse. He's limp and Dean's pretty near hysterics before he notices Sam's eyes fluttering; there's a big red stain on the crown of his head, where skin split from the impact, but he's breathing beneath Dean's fingers. He's not dead. He's _not dead_. He's unconscious. Or maybe he's fucking paralyzed. Dean breathes out shakily, running a hand over his hair as he thinks about what to do; he should call 911. Cover everything up and tell them they were fucking around and Sam fell hard.

"It's gonna be okay, Sam," he manages, though it's not an easy task. He rubs a palm against Sam's cheek, too worried to try much else. "I'm here. It's gonna be alright, little brother. I'll… fuck… Sammy, _wake up_. Move your fucking monkey arms."

Maybe it's enough to beg a little, because Sam's eyelids flutter again and his eyes start to roam listlessly until his brother's gaze falls on him. He blinks. Then his whole body shifts, a small line of blood racing over his slightly jutted brow. "Dea'… _Ffffuuuuck_."

Dean laughs, rubbing at his face. "God, Sam. Jesus Christ."

"S'laughing, it _hurtsss_." Sam swats at Dean's hands, uncoordinated and weak with confusion and vertigo. "Where… Where're'we? Face hurts." And then he tries to sit up, but Dean's carefully pushing to back to rest on his back.

"Colorado. Don't move until I check you out more," he says sternly, and Sam sort of flops pathetically to lay there as instructed. His neck feels okay when Dean paws along it, and he yanks off one of Sam's shoes, pinching the toe; same with his fingers, and even prods all along his back for reassurance that the nerves are doing their jobs. His pupils are of course not reacting well to light, though. _Shit_. Dad always taught him not to fuck around with head injuries; this needs to be seen by a doc, even if their aversion to hospitals makes that a begrudging task. He pats Sam's chest, above his heart, while his own heart is still pounding so fast he thinks maybe he'll pass out next; it's really hard to just shrug off thinking your brother was gone, just like that.

"Tell me how you're feeling. Any pain other than your head?"

Sam groans, blinking away tears of pain. "No. Don't think so. Head hurts. Lip hurts."

And yeah, Dean could see why. He's got a pretty nasty gouge there on his bottom lip. Must've bit it in the crash of flesh against metal. "Alright, Scrappy Doo, let's get you vertical and to the car. I think we can handle getting to a clinic on our own; gonna have to get our good ol' fake insurance crap going."

He lifts Sam up, still practically dead weight — well, even worse than dead weight, because Sam's trying to move his legs. It's like a dog flopping around his own long paws, or a newborn deer. Either way, Dean's half-convinced Sam is trying to drag Dean down with him for the Scrappy Doo comment, even if he isn't fully aware of it.

"Where're we? Why's there — so many cars?"

"We're avid car collectors," Dean jokes, leading Sam in a straighter path than Sam himself is really shooting for.

"Are not," Sam breathes. Blood drips down his nose, and Dean makes a note to grab the first aid kit asap. Until then, he grips Sam a little more firmly and directs him back over to the Impala, who has a broken out window — another story for another day, but Sam had been bitching all morning how the cold air was driving him batshit insane. He sets Sam down in the passenger seat with a grunt, while Sam reaches out and grabs his sleeve. "Dean… Think I hit my head. Where… why?"

"You're asking the tough questions tonight," he sighs, crossed between joking and serious as he retrieves the bandages and antiseptic. Sam's at least compliant enough that he lays against the headrest, but his eyelids are sagging and Dean has to give him a light shake. "Don't fall asleep, Sam; you got a concussion and a half right now."

"I got a concussion?"

This is gonna be a long, worrisome night. He runs his hand over the bottom of his face, peering at Sam's clueless expression before he finishes battling the hunter's shaggy hair to get to the wound there. It's not too bad, just bleeding a lot, but he has a hard time focusing when Sam is giving him a weird look.

"M'I dying?"

"No way. You're a pro at outrunning death. Got the legs for it, Tina Turner."

"… Dean?" Sam stops there, though, closing his mouth. "S'okay… happens sometimes."

No time to pry into that. He just buckles Sam in, who whines in his throat when he turns his head sharply to keep his brother in his line of sight. By the time they're back on the road, the wind is whipping through the busted passenger window, frosty enough to make Sam grumble under his breath, which is _perfect,_ because us it means that Sam is awake enough to grumble about it. Regardless of Sam's growing lucidity, Dean's hitting the gas to get somewhere faster; they're too far out into the countryside to be fickle with the speeding laws tonight.

"Dean?"

"That's still my name. What's up?"

"Dean… Y'put the ghost to rest?"

Dean would prefer to materialize that ghost and _punt_ them clear across the great U.S. But instead he settles on, "It's been taken care of. Laid to rest."

Sam is looking at him again with that weird, soft look. There's a smudge of dry blood on his chin where Dean had sloppily missed it. A hand snakes over, patting him on the shoulder. "Good to rest. M'proud of you… Y're a good guy."

"Jesus, Sam, you really clobbered yourself good. I prefer you get shitfaced drunk instead of nearly breaking your skull wide open, if you're gonna be sentimental." Nearest hospital shouldn't be too far away. They'll at least have a place to settle with professional help, in case it's worst than it looks and sounds.

"Don't gotta get clobbered to say it."

"Yeah, yeah, sure. Hang tight, man."

He leaves the radio off, listening for Sam, letting the whipping air outside cool the sweat on their brows. Sam's got one hand curled on Dean's old leather jacket for most of the trip, but Dean prefers to leave it be. It's not like Sam'll probably remember being like this anyway, and considering how close he was to losing one half of his terribly small family, Dean needs it more than he'd want to admit.

"Dean?"

"Mm?"

"…Think I have a concussion."


	10. No More Asia (Season 5)

**OOC:** No big warnings here! Mild hurt.

* * *

It's a surprisingly clean, bright day outside, which is weird for Sam, because it's currently the end of the world — you would think that the natural order of things would notice when Lucifer is wandering it, weaving his evil mark through the highways like a plague. Then again, maybe nature likes the devil; the devil sure doesn't seem to hate anything as much as he does humans. He puffs out a breath, leaning back and soaking in the calmness, because not very long ago they were in the throes of demon fighting and hopelessness.

 _ **Heat of the moment, heat of the moment —**_

Sam reaches over and shuts off the song before it can finish, Dean left hanging, the words coming to a halt before they can topple any further from his mouth. He raises his eyebrow, reaches back over, and flicks it back on after Sam's efforts. Memories hijack Sam's mind; they're all unpleasant and suffocating, even now.

"Dude, _stop_ ," Sam grumbles.

"It's a good song!" Dean replies indignantly. _Trying_ to be light. The famous keyword. Sam just shuts it off again, wordless and too tired to argue it. Dean whirls around, still driving while he gives Sam a slight glare; they haven't been seeing eye to eye entirely, which is the usual after the Cage gates were opened. But honestly, if Dean's just bitchy over Sam not wanting to relive horrible memories of being brotherless, well, Sam'll take it. At least Dean's alive.

It's just sad that they've gotten to the point where even Sam petulantly turning the radio off starts something, because before, Dean would just let it go and throw junk food at his hair. Now, there's a wave of frustration that's obviously left over from the last hunt. Sam shuts it off anyway. Dean turns it on. Shuts off. Turns on. Shuts off.

"Will you just chill out, man?" Dean growls, exasperated as he turns his gaze back to his brother again. The freckles on his face are hidden slightly by the flush of pink there. "Keep your hands off my radio! You're always bein' a pain in my ass lately. Is awkward silence your favorite hit or something?"

Sam's looking ahead with his jaw clenched, and he sees the blur of fur and eyes.

 _ **Animal.**_

He manages a choked out — " _Look out_!" as he puts his hands up against the dash, and Dean's eyes are back on the road, wide and assessing as he makes the snap decision to veer (empty highway, no cliffs, hopefully no trees). They peel out to a stop in grass, Sam's driver's side hitting an old tree roughly enough that the crunch of metal is like a grenade going off in Sam's ear. There's a buzz there that is saddled with the rumble of the engine as he sits up slowly.

Dean's hand shoots out and rests on his chest before he even so much as looks at Sam, and his Sam can see the exact moment Dean realizes shouldn't have done that in case Sam's actually hurt — green-brown eyes widen a little and Dean hesitates to keep his palm splayed there over his brother's shoulder, but Sam doesn't feel any pain there, nothing hurt, nothing to warn his brother about, so the hand remains. "You okay?"

"I… Yeah." He reaches up, touching his face. There's a pain there in his temple that ends up being a knot with a clean cut through it that bleeds sluggishly. He can think straight, though. Pretty sure there's no concussion. "Hit my head, but it's nothing bad." He looks over at Dean, seeing only a bloody nose that is being tenderly checked for any brokenness. "I'm sorry. I — "

"No," Dean says, the sound short but sure. "No, no. It's… we're okay, so. Fuck. Baby is gonna need some work done to her."

Sam's face reddens while he runs his palm over his face. Dean's gotten out, investigating his baby, making sure she's alright. Sam's sort of hoping Dean just deals with that and ignores him, but then he returns with a cold pack for Sam's rung bell; he applies the sharp burn of it to his forehead and finally talks. "I just… Didn't want to hear that song. It…" He stops himself, looks over, and sees that Dean is actually staring and waiting for him to finish that response. So he breathes shakily and says, "It played every morning, when the Trickster kept killing you. Every Tuesday."

"… _Oh_."

"Yeah. Just… go figure, I almost get you killed again."

He should have just clutched a fist and beared it. They've had enough issues. And now Sam's making shit harder again, and he knows Dean must be thinking it. Making another reason Sam shouldn't be here, even if he says he doesn't talk like that. _So far._

"… Nah. I should have kept my eyes on the road. I mean, you were still a dick when I was just trying to do car karaoke. But we can always blame that fox that decided to try to murder us just now. It can be our next job."

Sam laughs shakily. _Until the Devil ruins more stuff because of me,_ he thinks, but he keeps it under his collar, where the pulse beats heavy: guilty, guilty, guilty. The same pitter-pat thumps strong under Dean's hand before he drops it from Sam's chest.

"You sure you're alright, though," Dean adds, eyebrows raising. He taps his forehead. "Other than this? No Memento going on up there, nothing feels like it's leaking into your nasal cavity or ear canal?"

"I'll be okay. Had worse."

Dean can't deny that one, for sure. Nothing worse than both of them being dead before.

"You'll have worse when I kick you square in your left asscheek… But, uh." Dean starts the car, carefully testing the wheels. She gets back on the road just fine, which is good, because Sam couldn't afford to hold them up anymore. Not when they had work to do. He just needs to finish this, fix everything. Then maybe… Maybe once Lucifer's put down, he and Dean can go driving without this hanging over their heads. Maybe they can get down a road without nearly getting murdered by forest animals. Maybe Sam'll finally be able to tell Dean everything without getting that look of disappointment, of judgement. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Dean thrums his fingers on the steering wheel, wiping his nose off on his shirt. "I'm sorry, too, Sam. I know I been crabby, too; should have… I don't know. Let's just… relax. Smooth drive. Even if we look like we came out of a bar fight."

Sam shrinks down. "Okay. But no more Asia."

"No more Asia. And you're gonna be hustling _all_ weekend to help pay for this. It's a team effort."

"Because you can't hustle to save your life."

"Ha, very funny. I think we should probably just call a tow truck."

Bobby's gonna get a call to borrow his truck, and he's gonna _hate_ them.


	11. Glow (JessSam)

**OOC:** AU where John never goes missing and Yellow Eyes never comes for Jess and Sam.

* * *

"Sam, sweetie," Jess announces, voice strained with pain, "I love you, but if you don't stop pacing in front of my bed I'm _throwing_ the equipment at you." The hospital room isn't really all that active, which is weird to Sam, because this seems like the utmost emergency — his wife is trying to force another living creature through a place that literally pulls itself apart, and approximately 800 women a day die from it, and even if that is practically all in developing countries he's still biting his fingernails from the nightmare scenarios his mind conjures up. She'd already had some pretty heavy symptoms from the last nine months alone, and the baby is a little sooner than expected —

"I'm sorry," he says, wandering over quickly to her side with steeled resolve. He clasps her hand in his, taking in the transferred, faint heartbeat between them. One swipe of his oversized palm over her forehead alerts him to a possibly low fever and sweat. It's to be expected; she's working hard. "Are you okay? You need anything?"

"Need you to relax a little," she laughs, wincing.

"It's bullcrap; they should have had at least one anesthesiologist on site. Who lets them all take vacations at the same time?" But Jess just crinkles her nose at that, as if he's just being dramatic; even if it's pretty much Christmas right now, his wife's health is way more important to Sam than them rushing off to another state for the holidays. He knows it's selfish and he'll regret thinking like that later, but right now all he can focus on is that she's suffering and he's pretty much just a pacing moron whose best contribution is unintentionally humoring her. That, and he's efficient at getting her water.

"Sam's right, Jessie, it's a bunch of bull," Jessica's mother speaks up, waving her hand at the world; she'd been vigilantly staying with them off and on, leaving only to keep track of Jessica's overwhelmingly complex family tree that was content to either give Sam an innocently hard time or to pepper Jess with moral support. There were some kids running around outside, some of them following the Moore lineage with their blond hair and light eyes. He's still not sure who they belonged to.

The doctor finally comes in, and by the time it's _Time_ , Jess is pretty much crushing all the bones in his fingers, and somewhere in the back of his mind he's thinking of how Dean would probably be starstruck by her ability to produce power through pain. She breathes in and out and Sam sort of almost does it with her, but instead he puts his hand on her arm and rubs there. "You're doing so good, babe," he says, unsure if he should be next to her or watching his daughter being born; what would she want? He feels like leaving her up top is like betrayal. She screams out, gritting her teeth, and Sam decides to stay put. "Doing great, you hear that? You've almost got it. That's your little girl, Jess. We're gonna get to use that nursery, and you'll get to buy little dresses and do her nails and all that stuff."

There's an infant's cry in the room, and the doctor lifts up a healthy, pink baby into a swathe of blankets. Jess relaxes back into the pillows, exhausted — tears in her eyes, and soon Sam's fighting his own. "Looks like little Mariah is going to a handful already," the doctor announces over the royally pissed baby cries. Sam laughs and offers Jess a kiss on the hand (his feels like it's gonna be bruised tomorrow, but it doesn't really compare even a molecule, now does it?), and then he carefully retrieves Mariah from the doctor's arms after they've helped clean her off. _Mariah_. It's insane to think that there's someone in the world now, that their names will finally be used. That it applies now, makes it all real. This is a _person_.

"It's our daughter," Sam manages to choke out. He's always had a hard time with sappiness. It's like a curse in the Winchester household, his wet doe eyes. He hands her over to Jess, and Sam feels like he's dreaming, and they sit in their small world for a long while before family begins to filter in, eager to see the new addition to the overloaded family. By the time it's getting late and visiting hours are dwindling down, Jessica's exhausted and sleeping with her hand curled on the edge of Mariah's little hospital-grade bassinet.

Sam leaves for a moment to grab something from the snack machine, when he freezes, catching sight of a familiar leather jacket; Dean stands in front of him, looking sheepish, a gift box and a bear under his arm; it looks completely ridiculous and foreign to what Sam knows of him, but more importantly, he hasn't seen Dean physically in years. Something in his chest constricts. Dean looks down, shuffling his feet. Last he'd spoken to Dean on the phone, he seemed pretty flippant and unsure of the whole thing. And yet here he is, wandering over to bridge the distance.

"Papa Sam, huh? Brought you, uh. Stuff. Wanted to come say congrats. Dad wanted to come, but…"

"… I… Yeah. Hey." Which is apparently code for I missed you so much, because Dean's got Sam in a bear hug, awkwardly crushing the teddy between their chests. And Sam's arms are like magnets, reciprocating the gesture as he hugs back.

"Real cute. Did the gift shop lady look at you funny when you got these, Mr. Tough Guy?"

"Oh, haha." He looks nervous, but Dean's never been one to back down from his nerves. He breathes out deep and then says, more proudly, "Show Uncle Dean where the little terror is."

… Well, if there's any way to break his family into his normal, new life, this would be one way to do it. Sam nudges Dean's shoulder, walking him toward the room, where Jess is holding his little girl, glowing and proud. And Dean glows, too, at the sight of it — and Sam glows with them.


	12. Tweeze

**OOC:** Season 8. Sam likes to preen.

* * *

There are things about Sam that Sam doesn't like to admit. Not so much because he thinks there's anything necessarily wrong with plucking your eyebrows and preening in front of a mirror as a fully grown man, but more so he would rather avoid the ridicule. Whether it be from Dean or some other hunter in a life that is already hyper-masculine as it is. He's always been a little bit out of the mold. Personally, he thinks maybe a lot more of these hunters would do themselves a favor and try to break out of it themselves. Dean is harmless when it comes to the teasing, the badgering, but it's not Sam's favorite pastime, getting Dean's opinion on what he does in the morning.

Truth is, there are a lot of parts to himself that he doesn't like. He doesn't really care for the slopes of his forehead, he hates the sharp angles of his cheekbones. He tolerates the way his fingers are shaped, the way his lips curl. He's not flattered by his long neck and his gangly legs. And he despises having to face himself in a mirror sometimes, because it can be a royal pain in the ass feeling normal one moment, then looking at yourself and remembering who you really are the next. He knows he's 'handsome' — by some definition, to some degree; a lot of people point it out, and surely they can't all be wrong, but that's just the problem with the whole 'tainted' thing, isn't it? The insides converge with the outside. He feels like he could just as easily see the muck melting through his skin. He doesn't see it, the whole attractive thing. He just sees Sam Winchester.

But what's the point of giving up?

Might as well fight to like yourself. However you gotta' do it.

So he keeps his hair maintained, buys the expensive shampoos; he carefully moisturizes, cleans out his pores, and pats on concealer; plucks away all the stingy hairs of his eyebrows that don't look quite right. When the hallucinations of Lucifer pulls him every which direction, he bulks up, runs more, keeps himself maintained. _Love yourself_ , Sam thinks, wills himself to listen. Love yourself. Easier said than done. He figures telling himself he feels good over and over and over will eventually work.

Sam does all of this for a long, long time, and when the Trials start to take a toll on him down the road, he sneaks away in the middle of a fever-fueled night walk to take to his drawers and work on his face. A little rubbing in here. A little shaping there. His hair's a wreck; it needs to be adjusted. When he comes back out of it, Dean intercepts him with a confused but relieved expression, and Sam realizes he was likely scouring the bunker looking for the 6'4", sweaty, mammoth brother.

"You need to stop being so good at wandering off," he gripes.

"Dude, it's a light fever; I can handle it."

"Okay, okay," Dean says, then raises his eyebrows, taking in Sam's appearance. And actually, he's looking more happy with this whole vanishing act than he was before. "You're doing a lot better, huh? You look less pale. Got rid of the dark circles. Sleep working for you finally?"

Sleep really isn't, but he's not about to say as much. They've been dealing with a lot of shit.

"Yeah. I feel… a lot better. Feel more like myself."

He smiles weakly, before shuffling off to the couch; Dean just sort of stands there like he's not sure how legs work, or maybe he's just not sure how to handle Sam lately, and Sam couldn't say he'd be surprised by that revelation. Sam's not always sure how to handle himself either. Whatever. He's still totally drained despite himself, so he plops down on the couch with the newspaper from a few towns away, seeking out anything interesting. Hunting is like exercising: if he doesn't do it and just sits immobile all day, he's just gonna feel even more shitty.

But then his eyelids get heavy.

And then, what was supposed to be a short resting of his eyes is a five hour nap. When he gets up, he feels like he's made out of prime anvil material, all weight and no muscle, hair somehow gaining a mind of its own and undoing everything he'd done to fix it earlier. Friggin' mop-head. He smooths it back, padding along barefoot back into his bathroom. The sight of Dean focusing very intensely into the old mirror and plucking at his eyebrow is the weirdest thing Sam's seen since the time they crossed paths with a relatively innocent ghost who really, _really_ liked food fights.

"… Dean, what're you doing with my tweezers?"

Dean could have very well jumped through the ceiling, into the stratosphere.


	13. Sam, Tumblr & the Great Fanfiction Diary

Author's Note: If you're not familiar with tumblr, this one will go right over your head.

Enjoy the meta madness.

* * *

Sam is hardly new at tumblr, shocking as that is for a hunter - one from dad's line of teaching, anyway, considering how awful the old man was with technology. He scrolls through sometimes, let's his mind drift off to other things; pictures of the galaxy, stupid images, videos, the usual talk of current events, all things that you don't usually get to indulge in on the road until the motel lights are all out and you've got your laptop opened up to the blue and white page. And as far as that goes, it's only a matter of time before he stumbles upon Supernatural fans. And… a fandom. Now, Sam's savvy about fandoms: he knows about Trekkies, knows there's some people foaming at the mouth over the latest BBC hit, knows Marvel is steamrolling. He's not sure what a Homestuck is, but of the pictures he's seen, he's thinking he'd rather not see; he'd probably want to go hunting.

Somehow, he'd ended up writing a little. Well, not _meta_ , because people seemed to get pretty heated about that. Most of it was harmless enough, even if some had left him feeling a little low in spirits; sometimes he'd read something and it'd have him lay in bed longer than intended, studying the ceiling and stewing in guilt or bittersweet remembrance or hurt. Dean never asked about it when he was like this; maybe Dean just figured this was how he usually was. It's just - getting the nickname Dick of Death was sort of a mood killer, you know? He's just saying… Well, they're all right, he supposes; his partners always seem to be standing on a ledge, and any devotion or love he places in their hands seems to throw them off balance, leaving them to plummet into the darkness below. And reading about how he's been tainted since birth is always a grim reminder. And reading about how his life could have been, if Jess had…

Best not to think too much about it.

There's a lot of kind things, too, though. A lot of words that leave him blushing and light, and Dean swears up and down in the car that Sam's on something. "Hope you haven't been eating any of those Biggerson burgers," he says, and Sam just smiles a little in relief. He had people out there who understood. Who liked him. _Liked_ him. As a person. Someone like _him_. Dedicated time drawing their idea of what he'd look like and wrote stories… some, uh, not so fun to read, considering who sat next to him. Some people seemed to want to literally concuss, stab, shoot, and otherwise slash him up. Which was awkward. But it was birthed from a place of love and fondness.

… He thinks? Most of the time?

Anyway. He writes, sometimes.

He's not sure what motivates him to begin. Maybe because he wanted people to read the good things. The funnier things. Their story was so tiring, wasn't it? So exhausting, he's not sure how people don't finish it and wonder how the hell to carry on - oh. It's fiction to them. Shit, yeah. Right. Yeah. He figures he'll give them stories anyway. Makes an account, hesitantly writes up a quick tale about the time Dean got thrown down grocery aisles by a ghost haunting a Dollar Market.

 _#dEAN GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER #omfg #hahahaha #sorry about your shirt sam but it was probably ugly anyway have you SEEN the book illustrations_

He sort of wafts on if he should actually continue this ridiculous thing he's doing, writing up his own experiences like this. He writes about the time he had to face down clowns, and - that's kind of therapeutic in and of itself. Everyone had apparently wondered when the next time Sam and clowns would have to go toe-to-toe. It's too bad they'll never know he actually really did tangle with them again. And almost got himself wasted. He smiles behind his woven fingers, lips a thin and amused curl on the side of his hand, eyes twinkling. These crazy kids are pretty creative, actually; they write really well, put a lot of thought into lore and their thoughts, their motivations. He figures he could do the same.

He writes sometimes about the bad things. About the Trials, about how he felt like he'd failed his brother. Between research, he offers up bits and pieces of his life he'd never, ever show anyone; it's all fanfiction, after all. Nobody in the hunting world, save for Dean really, would ever find this and think it's anything but a fan with a penchant for scarring their favorite characters. It's just some other person on tumblr, writing up another hurtful fic. It's _perfect_. Soothing, kinda, to show your heart like that but have no horrible outcome. He'd failed his brother time after time. He'd failed people he should have protected. He'd been hurt utterly by his brother, another being wriggling around in his skin. He'd made his fair share of mistakes, he thinks. Sharing it was like a taste of freedom from himself and the things bottled up inside of him.

There's a time later on, though, where he can't bring himself to return to writing. Life hurts for a Winchester you know? Painful shit happens, horrible enough to leave him choking on gamy remains of happiness, rotten now in the wake of yet another problem, another world-crashing dilemma. So he's gone off the net. For a long while. Gone with his thoughts confined to his head and his alone, as he picks up a shotgun and charges into the thick of things.

When he returns, beaten down but alive - somehow - there are dozens of messages in his inbox, going back from latest to earliest. Some about his last works.

 _'OMG YOU REALLY WROTE SOMETHING WITH A UNICORN IN IT'_

 _'Your stuff is seriously great. I always keep an eye out for it! Your writing for Sam is awesome, it's like Edlund totally has a secret account or something here.'_

 _'Are you doing okay?'_

 _'Everyone's wondering where you went. :('_

 _'You wrote that life was pretty rough as of late in one of your comments, just wanted to check in. If you need anyone to talk to, I'm always around!'_

 _'hey! noticed you went radio silent, just let me know everything's okay 3′_

Sam reddens, a little humbled, a little guilty.

He eventually posts, _'I'm alright, guys. Sorry for the sudden absence. Drama, right?'_

Someone replies with a sly, _'too busy fighting demons and angels, huh? ;)'_

… Well… There are weirder things in his life than him being his own ghost writer. He smirks and types, _'You bet.'_ And then he writes about how he met… how _Sam_ had met Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. And everyone's tags -

 _Ah -_

 _#crossover #crack #you killed the fucking tinman #seriously oz + supernatural? #lesbiaaaans_


	14. Fixing the Door (10x03)

Author's Note: Real short piece following 10x03, nothin' fancy.

* * *

Sam had replaced doors before. One time in college, he had to put up a new door for Jess when someone had broken hers down – some thugs or whatever looking for something to steal. The other times, he'd been working in Texas as a maintenance man, trying to get by day to day. It was an honest living, at least. And he wasn't fixing up his own messes – just everyone else's. It was nice to do that, he thinks. Now, though, he's got this busted door in the Bunker, all bits of wood and a mangled skeleton that used to be its had considered, albeit briefly, hammering everything back together. But then he realizes he'd be using the one that almost broke his skull in; the thought wasn't pleasant, so replacing the door it was.

He stops by the local hardware store on the way to get his brother some cholesterol, finds the right size (it'll be a new 21st century door in the middle of an old-as-the-hills bunker; not bad). Then he drags the door down the stairs, punctuating his footfalls with a THUNK, THUNK, THUNK as the heavy slab hits step; with his sling on, he's having a hell of a hard time moving anything and it takes him a long while to get from point A to miserable point B. But it's not enough to wake up Dean, though. Dean, who's laid out on his bed, looking tired, tossing a bit in his sleep. Sam leans the door against the wall and rubs his own face, which feels a bit sharper under his palms, now that he thinks about it. He hasn't slept in over thirty hours. No, fourty hours. His mind feels like mush. His fingertips tremble a bit. The sun outside is peaking through the trees that line the horizon; if he went outside now, the beams of gold would hit him and remind him he's nearly out of his mind for not turning in.

But he doesn't want this fucking door here, blasted to pieces. He doesn't want a reminder of how broken everything is, even with Dean at his side again, salvaged, normal (or is he? is he really normal? is he really at his side? he doesn't know, not without Dean's word to comfort him). He triple-checks to make sure Dean's breathing through the night out of some sleep-deprived anxiety that he'll be cold and stiff in the morning, then he gets to work.

He's not really sure how, but he wakes up curled in his bed a few hours later. His shoes are off, blanket tucked up around his chin, and his head is throbbing on top of that. When he moves to sit up, the world see-saws a little bit. His arm is seriously killing him. Kneading his temples with his good hand, he groans low in his throat, trying to relax. His heartbeat shouldn't be in this many obvious places at once, should it? This loud and aggravating in his skin?

"You passed out," Dean says from the doorway, spooking him; Sam nearly leaps out of his skin before he looks to his brother, hazel eyes meeting hazel. "Fell right on top of your busted chicken arm, too. Should've been resting, man."

It all sounds a little empty and lost. Like he doesn't know how to be Sam's brother anymore. Sam sits up against his headrest. He's being dramatic, if that's the case. "Yeah, well. I had stuff to do."

Dean dips his chin, unable to meet Sam's stare. "Yeah… like clean up my messes, huh?"

He breathes in, holds the air. "Dean…"

"No, it's – it's all good, Sam," Dean says, putting a hand up quickly. He looks like he's in the middle of a big room, giving a speech; his eyes dart away as he licks his lips and toys with the end of the red button-up he wears over his black tee. "You did good, okay? I'm… Just get some sleep, alright? At least sleep passed 2:00 or 3:00 like any decent slob."

He wanders over, slow and cautious. Shakes a bottle of pills at him for the headache.

Sam doesn't know it, but Dean thinks this is probably a metaphor for something, this image right here. Sam just smiles with all the relief in the world that his brother is trying to take the pain away from his head, instead of mashing it with the hammer he would have needed to fix that fucking door.

"At least the door's replaced," Sam mumbles into a coffee cup later on, his own cholesterol on a breakfast plate made by a wary brother and his old need to fix more than a door, though.

Fixing the door was the easy part.


	15. Nail Polish

Author's Note: A short random cutesy piece.

* * *

Sometimes, you have to get yourself in new and interesting (and sometimes compromising) positions to get that you need. And as long as nobody ever bothers to point out Sam's hair is not FBI regulation, then they're usually golden for about everything else. Right now he's hunkered down like a crouching giraffe, knees nearly up to his chin as he holds his hand very still. The little girl has pigtails, a floral dress, and happens to know exactly what happened to the missing persons across the street. Dean's in the house, wooing her mother.

"So, Kaylee, you noticed your friend go toward the big scary — ?"

"Manbear. Do you like purple or blue?"

Sam considers this very deeply. Well, he does like both, but —

"Blue, definitely blue. You said a… _manbear_?"

She _shake-shake-shakes_ the container, getting to work on his left hand. The right hand is already bright and sunny with orange and red. Sam is relatively proud that it's come to this point, where he doesn't give half a shit. And — wow, she's pretty good at getting everything within the lines of boundary, for a kid going into first grade.

"Mhmm. A manbear. He was tall, and, ummmm… he was tall and, uh, really hairy. Like a bear. But he had long claws; they were scary. I thought I was dreaming, but I pinched myself and it hurt… like… a _lot_ …"

"Claws? What did those cl—"

"Careful! You're moving!"

"Sorry. What did those claws look like?"

She explains in detail, surprisingly vivid about it for her age, and Sam can't help but be a little impressed by her eye for details. Also, she's really fabulous at putting those little diamonds on your nails. By the time he's sitting back in the car, he's looking them over with some visible respect while Dean stares at him like he's grown five heads.

"Dude," Dean just says.

Sam gives a pleased little nod of approval. "They're my color."


	16. Only Three (Season 10)

Author's Note: Season 10. Sam cooks for Dean.

* * *

Sam is _not_ the best cook in the world; he's made his own dinners before, back when he was eight, nine, and Dean had ran off to do his own thing — or had to shadow John from the car, make sure everything went okay. By the time they'd get back, Dad (injured, tired, frustrated, what have you) would crash on the sofa or bed or whatever the hell constituted for furniture to flop on. And then Sam would give Dean some cold dish he'd made back during an hour they'd promised they would be home, and they'd get fat off baked beans and mac'n'cheese with the television or radio on. It's not like they worried much about waking Dad, during those nights; he slept like the dead, ears alerted only to the out-of-place scrape on windows or spots of cold in the summer. So yeah — not a master chef. At least most of the things he enjoys are pretty self-explanatory.

The room smells good, though, and he sits down as it prepares with a hot cup of coffee in his hands, prepared to stay up into the late hours and work on rearranging books. Dean's been having a harder time with sleep himself, tossing and turning and crying out for Sam like he's struggling not to give in and slice Sam's throat open, wherever he is. Sam, fucked up as it is, has accepted this. Isn't sure when his brother will be completely free of those vivid, hellish dreams, so he just makes it a point to get things done since he's too busy worrying about Dean sleepwalking like he did one time out of a dozen. Nothing more intimidating than your curse-marked brother standing in the dark end of a hallway, watching you, eyes listless and glazed with sleep. It took him a while to actually approach him and walk him back to bed, and Dean never remembers anyway.

Dean staggers into the room, hair askew like he'd been sleeping someplace that isn't a bed, probably one of the couches in the back room. The bunker's extra cold today; for all the technology in the world, they still had the age-old lust for freezing architecture. He flexes his toes while Dean drags a chair open, and Sam can't help but watch his brother over the rim of his mug for any changes; he just itches his arm like he's got bugs latching on there, trying to pinch their way into his skin. Not good, but better than the shaking. Always an improvement, a lack of shaking. Still, Sam keeps the knives hidden, for Dean's sake, because that's always one of the things that sets it off.

Dean yawns as he grabs the same paper they've had on the table for a week.

"Sleeping Beauty rises," Sam says.

"I appreciate that you think I'm beautiful, but leave that for the fanfic writers," Dean grouses (and seems to realize he's read this paper twice already). He gives pause, however, the moment the scent in the room hits him. Like a chef testing the smell of his own dish he tilts his head back, breathing in deep. And Sam's grin matches Dean's when his brother finally remembers. "Mac and cheese and baked beans? Pretty predictable, little brother."

"Yeah, well, it's been a long time. I was jonesing for it."

The word feels bad on his tongue, like demon blood. He chides himself for even using it, but Dean just slides his chair back and smiles.

"You know how many calories are in this crap?"

As he leans over the food expectantly, Sam shrugs. "I have an idea, considering I nearly used three sticks of butter."

" _Only_ three?"

Sam snorts, shaking his head. But this feels good. Feels like it's a good day. Maybe they should take it off, relax, watch some television over the taste of cheese and sweet sauce. Besides, they have a lot they can do here, too. The books in the back are all screwed up from them burrowing through them for lore and any leads on the Mark, and there are secret rooms Sam hasn't even gotten to dig through. And there are cars — motorcycles — in the garage that Dean had planned on actually driving a little; Dean hadn't really drove motorcycles before. Never had a reason to, even when he had his periods where he was alone. Because that would mean leaving Baby somewhere while he did, and that would be such a betrayal, right? Sam smiles a bit to himself, ignoring Dean's prodding when he demands to know what's so amusing.

The kitchen timer rings, and Dean tries to add another stick of butter before Sam intervenes.


	17. ghosts don't cough (weechesters)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This is pretty much a horrifically horrible darkfic weechesters thingy and I hate myself for it but here you go; I figure that they've seen some pretty gnarly shit, considering their profession is shitty no matter what age they are.

… I have my traumatic moods more often than not. This is horrible. And since I said it's horrible, I am totally free of any blame for whatever you read! Ha!

 **WARNING FOR CHILD DEATH.**

* * *

ghosts don't cough

* * *

The flames make everything black — the wood crisps, his hands smear with ash, the sky is masked by an intense and stifling plume of smoke, signaling to the small town around them that someone is losing everything they ever owned. They'll never know a particularly bad poltergeist lit the place up itself: a last-ditch effort to take everyone out with it. John screams for Dean that it's impossible, holding Dean around the stomach and keeping him from rushing in with everything he's got… but Sam's in there. Sam ran back in, and Dean's throat is closed up, heart seizing with panic.

"Sammy! Sammy, no! No!" And he puts his hands on the back of his head finally as his eyes grow wet. The soot on his face is ran through by salty tear trails. The place is black, black like rotted fruit, sour enough to turn their lungs inside out. Dean remembers the stench, revisits that world in his head where Mom is gone and Sam's nearly dropped out of his arms as he runs down the stairs of their own home; he smells the smell of the Winchester house — but this time, it's his second life going up in flames.

Sam's burning to death. Behind him, ambulance sirens wail, casting hellish lights on his and his father's stricken faces.

"Dean!"

It's not his father this time, but the ghost of Sam — he turns in what feels like slow motion, his breath held as Sam's specter races around from the back of the old Roslon home; it's all graceless, limbs fumbling over each other, and Sam's got his arms curled around a bundle, eyes barely open as he chokes and coughs and sputters.

Ghosts don't cough.

He rushes over, unable to stop the manic grin from spreading over his face.

"Jesus christ, Sammy! Fuck — are you okay?! Don't you ever, ever, _ever_ do something that stupid again, you friggin' runt!" Dean's hands hover at Sam to check him for injuries. The boy's shaking and doesn't give them time to do much; he just hands his father a soft little body without delay, trying to blink away ash and sweat that's dripped down into his face. A swell of pride in Dean's chest gives him pause, knowing Sam had rushed out of there even when he was half-blinded by the elements. He grabs his brother's chin while John moves the baby Sam had retrieved to the medics waiting in the distance.

"Mr. and Mrs. Roslon just left her, Dean — " Sam gasps, tears dripping down his face from the irritation; Dean uncaps his holy water and pours it over Sam's face, and Sam melts into the cool, cleansing water like he needed salvation. "She's just a baby. They just left her and ran. They just — left her…!"

Dean tries to envision Mom and Dad leaving Sam behind.

It makes his teeth grind behind neutral lips.

"I get it. I get it, Sam. You — you did good, kiddo. Let's get you sitting down, okay? You probably inhaled some nasty shit." He leads Sam to sit on one of the lawn chairs nearby, glancing back over his shoulder as John wanders back with a tired, shadowed expression. Dean's stomach twists. Sam rubs at his face with a towel as medics and firemen swarm around the place; a medic kneels next to Sam, an older woman with her hair tied back.

"Baby's gone," John whispers to Dean with surprising gentleness, squeezing his eldest's shoulder. Dean closes his eyes, letting some kind of godsent composure wash over him. He's getting too used to this job. He's learning how to let go. This wasn't one they could carry out of the fire. But it shouldn't have been on Sam to do that in the first place, and for that one moment in time — one of the few moments since Sam learned about the supernatural — he wondered just how utterly pointless it all is. How completely ugly, to drag Sam into this messy and sad life, where his brother is coated in ash and asking about an infant that he'd carried out of the flames, one already dead from drowning in the hot air around her crib.

"Dean?" Sam asks, eyes red and weary, and he looks up to his brother, the siren lights dancing across a round face. "How is she?"

Dean smiles thinly.

"… She's resting now. It's all good, Sammy."

And Sam leaves that town in their rear view mirror, goes to college, loses it all, jumps into Hell, plunges needles into his sickly flesh, cures his brother of demonism… still believing that Dean's words were completely and utterly true.


	18. Get a Room (LindaJody)

Author's Note: This is a Linda/Jody mini-fic. :)

* * *

 **Get a Room**

* * *

Jody invites Linda over after a phone call with Sam — well, specifically, many weeks after a drunken and later apologetic dialing of her number regarding Dean's inexplicable disappearance. Sam had sort of awkwardly slipped into the topic one morning when she's almost completely sure he's dosed heavily on pain medication (and despite all denials, she is more than aware what someone drowning in Vicodin sounds like). Before she could completely scold him for getting hurt, he'd asked her to get in contact with Mrs. Tran, be a kind ear to her like she'd been to him if she could.

It did worry her a lot, that _Sam_ was asking something of her, because he'd been fighting tooth and nail to shut her out from the heavier things going on in his life. Out of fear of involving her? Probably. But it still sat all wrong with her.

Her talk with Linda Tran was an interesting one — it began awkwardly enough, the usual song and dance of _"and how did **you** meet the Winchesters?"_. Her story of course had been a little more bitter, spoke of fate and her son's _calling_ ( _and some calling_ , she had said; _screw God and fate_ ); there had been some bitterness toward Sam and Dean, too, and maybe that's why Sam had been so adamant about his request, because there'd been talk of not protecting her son enough, of leaving him vulnerable. Linda had told her Kevin's story, from Kevin's own personal account, and suddenly the memory of Sam walking away from her to put a bullet in her son's skull leaves her nearly paralyzed.

Yes. She can see why Sam asked if she could call, check in on her.

"And what happened to your son?" Linda had asked — carefully, very carefully, "Did he get tied up in all that God crap, too?"

"Not exactly," she manages. "No. I mean, he was… already gone. But…"

She doesn't tell it to her over the phone; she tells her about her family in person, over a glass of beer. It's not exactly _easy_ , but Linda understands her better than most, and that helps a hell of a lot. They fall into this easy pattern of visiting each other here and there, and Jody figures that maybe Linda is more lonely than even _she_ is, because at she has is a son she can't even hold — not that that is no small thing, because loath as she is to even think this way, she would have given a hell of a lot to see Owen one last time, even as a spirit. Pretty awful of her, right? She thinks so. It makes her want to drink more. Linda seems to always feel the same.

Eventually, Mrs. Tran does come to their home. With Kevin. It's certainly not… the most _relaxing_ encounter at first, really, because they're all nervous to not screw up what's supposed to be a friendly visit… but then Alex waves her hand through Kevin's translucent head and quirks her eyebrow, and then says bluntly, "You wanna go watch some movies I got off bit torrent?"

And Kevin trails after her with the murmur of, "Isn't that illegal?"

It makes Linda smile — a tight-lipped smile, from a no-nonsense woman.

"That's good," she says. "He's been needing a little company. It is exceptionally hard to _socialize_ when you're what he'd call _Casper_." She downs one of the tumblers as if to wash away that morose taste in her mouth and Jody refills it, finding a place on the couch to sit and card through whatever topics come to mind. Jody tries to avoid the discussion of Winchesters just in case — she loves them, but she's not about to focus on anything that reminds Linda of her son's untimely death — but it's actually _Linda_ who asks about them. How they're doing. She's not sure she's supposed to talk about Dean being gone, especially with how Sam's been taking it. Better to leave that page un-turned. They talk about places they enjoy visiting instead, and about maybe having some dinner at some place nice, because they both have a habit of stressing themselves out to the core.

Somewhere in those dwindling night hours, Linda drags Jody into her lips into a rough sort of kiss, smelling of liquor and mint — and Jody just kisses back. She's soft-edged around the jaw, smooth and welcoming; it's hard not to melt into it and just let it go, even if it's _different_. Even if it's not usual for her. Anything to make fireworks. Anything for those sparks, that glow. It feels good, something she's tried to find; something that reminded her of what it was like before. She's not particularly sure how it could go from here, still isn't sure what she's feeling altogether, but it doesn't hurt to give it a try, right? Besides, she likes the way Linda's hand feels in her hair.

" _ **Oh, god**_ ," Kevin blurts, and they look up at his ghostly visage covering his face before he flickers out from the hallway in mortification. Jody supposes that makes sense, what with his mother making out with someone he's barely met who is most definitely not his father, rest in peace. Alex, though, just looks between them with her arms folded and her lips drawn down in consideration. That smart-ass look makes her want to demand Alex go to her room right this instant. Ugh. _Kids_.

"Kind of late experimenting, Jody," Alex says. "At least get a _room_ next time."

 _Sounds like a plan,_ she thinks, flustered.

Linda just smirks like it isn't the first time.


	19. Abomination (Slightly Sastiel)

Author's Notes: Takes place in S9, after Gadreel is expelled and Dean leaves with the Impala.

* * *

"So, wait — you saw an actual Nephilim?"

Sam leans in close, beer hanging in his hand and legs curled around the back of the old bunker chair he'd planted himself in. Nesting or sprawling or whatever it is, he finds more and more lately that he's never quite sure what to do with his body — just that he has to throw those lanky limbs somewhere to prove that he can, that this body is his and all his, that it moves to his thoughts and no one else's. Not anymore. He's tried not to think about it, how Dean had walked away and drove off into the rain-drenched night, leaving Cas and Sam behind. He tries not to think about how not very long ago, he wasn't his own person. That he had holes in his brains that Castiel had to heal, how cloudy the world had been — numbed — until the angel's restoring touch had mended his mind together and helped make everything luckily and _revoltingly_ real.

Cas, who is currently trying to keep Sam still like a fussing mom fixing her son's hair, putting two fingertips to Sam's forehead and slowly working on each little broken piece of the Winchester. Sam is partly afraid to ask what Cas sees in there; likely, nothing salvageable for a normal human being. He's been sewn back together so often, he has a hard time believing there's any normalcy in how his walking corpse functions anymore.

"You're coming along well — and yes, I did… um." He cuts himself off, shifting uncomfortably. Sam realizes maybe he hadn't meant for his comments to launch into more back-story, because likely… well. Back-story meant regret. It's hard to talk about some things. But before Sam could tell him it'd be okay to skip the college class Castiel continues on with, "Metatron had told me that the only way to… help fix heaven with the tablets would be to kill a nephilim; we found one. The last of its kind, so I was told."

"… Sounds like a lonely existence," Sam replies, swishing the remains of his beer in circles. "I mean… To feel like there's nobody like you. I couldn't imagine being the only human alive." He supposes Dean might have felt that way — in some way, shape, or form — in Purgatory. But the thought of Dean reminds him of Gadreel's hands around his throat and he shudders.

"Well." Cas sits down at the table, eyes closed in thought. "Nephilim are abominations. Neither human nor angel. It's better that there are none that followed."

It's not spoken in anger or disgust, but in a sort of blind honesty that makes Sam's mouth feel dry. Even though he has a million thoughts running through his head, he can't particularly settle on one for a long time. Eventually, though, he says in a low voice, "But that's like me, isn't it…?" Castiel's face whips up in mild surprise, as Sam continues, "I haven't been quite human for a long time, you know…? I've been hunted for what I was. And now I've been a little bit angel and a little bit human, too, I guess…"

The silence is surprisingly heavy, which is weird to Sam, because he doesn't expect the level of discomfort Castiel seems to be in at the turn in topic. He's even more surprised when Castiel shakes his head and says, "No. No, I'm… I'm sorry, Sam. That isn't what I was trying to say; it's not… You are not an abomination."

Sam snorts. He's pretty sure if he hadn't already had three beers, he would have kept the noise to himself. But it spurs Castiel on to lean in closer, blue eyes intense and focused. "It wasn't a joke, Sam. You're not. What I had said all those years ago… I was deluded. I was a foolish and simple creature, even in all my years in existence."

Sam's heart feels heavy. Swells up. He should really not drink; he's a lightweight.

"Cas, you don't have to play nice because we're friends now, you know? I mean, hell, look at me now. I just spent the last few months getting my brains prodded by an angel. I'm kind of a freak."

"This isn't playing; this is no game. I was wrong." Cas leans back in his chest, hands laced together as he contemplates the past. Or at least, that's what Sam pictures him to be doing. "Nothing is simple in this world. I know that now. I mean… I've crossed the line between angel and human myself." He bites his lip. A human-like motion, useless other than to stave off restlessness. "I suppose… I suppose I have no room to call that girl anything, looking at myself. To call her that when I've hurt so many more people than her in my lifetime… I'm ashamed, now that I've put it into perspective."

Sam taps his knees, and they're silent for a long moment.

"… You're not an abomination to me," Sam finally says.

Cas smiles thinly. "Well… You've always seen a better side to me."

Sam chokes on a swig of his drink, red face turning redder. Cas just reaches for Sam's beer, despite no longer being able to keep a simple buzz, looking very content with himself as he takes a long drink.


	20. Men in Hospital Beds (SamMadison AU)

**Author's Notes:** This is a sequel to Lock the Front Door! You can find it as #5 in this list of fanfiction stories. :)

* * *

Madison slides into the hospital room, feeling small and unprepared in the wake of the sterilized after-scent — it always reminded her of when her grandmother passed away, how everything had had this intense smell, this _homely_ look, like they were trying to mask everything dark and lonely and scary about this kind of place.

Sam's hospital room has a framed picture of the beach and a decent little vase of flowers, but more nicely, there are Get Well cards and balloons sitting beside his bed, next to his curled hand; he's napping, it seems, so she bites her lip and wanders over to investigate each little note and flower, plucking up any stray petals. It's all given by teachers and students, pretty much, and it's cute, seeing the progress he made worming his way into the faculty and campus… even if he's still far too quiet and to himself (well, understandable, but Madison enjoys going out too much to comprehend the feeling).

A throat clears to her left, and she nearly leaps into the next floor in surprise, a card clasped to her breast.

"Sam!" she yips, trying to glare at him and failing.

"I've got good hearing," he says roughly, voice like sandpaper.

He's got one tired eye turned to her, pale lips turned upward into a sharp little smirk. He really does look bad today, she thinks. It makes her shoulders relax and her expression soften, as she slides to sit down next to him in the chair. It's so peaceful in here, in this room. Quiet. Hospitals can be hit and miss sometimes — energy in here is like ocean waves, breaking on rocks or gliding gracefully back from the shores. If she closes her eyes and listens very intently, she could hear children playing outside with an exasperated mother on their heels. Carefully, she readjusts the stolen card to sit back on the small shelf, and smiles at him and his pale expression.

"You scared the crap out of me," she says.

His smile drops a bit, more sincere. "Sorry."

And really, that is what she expected. He always apologizes when he's not fit and ready, but she doesn't particularly expect him to be, so she wishes he'd stop repeating himself; there's nothing he has to say anything for. Well, except — "If you're not feeling well, you shouldn't force yourself through class. And — be honest with me. You said it's all just bad allergies and all, but… I mean… pneumonia, Sam. That's a big deal. People can die from that." She reaches over at his silent, assessing stare, fond at the way his eyes flutter closed when she tucks his hair back. "I care about you. I mean, if the rough sex every other day wasn't a sign."

He chokes on a laugh, flustered. "That wasn't manual therapy?"

A huff. "Sam…"

And he seems to be a little more serious about it, clasping and unclasping his hand slumped beside him. Turns his face away just enough, and Madison has spent enough time with him to know it means he's somehow ashamed of himself in some way, somehow. She rubs her palm across his arm, feeling the slight goosebumps there. After a moment, he turns to look wearily at Madison, and… she's not sure she's ever seen him look so tired. And that is truly saying something. It makes fear coil in her stomach, because he's not telling her what's wrong, and she needs to know what's wrong —

"A few years back, I got sick. Really, really sick. It's… It's just something that came up, you know? I wasn't always sick. I don't know how long it'll be for, or if it'll ever go away. I'm not sure if it'll kill me or not, or when. But I… I'm just trying to move on and take care of myself, you know? One step at a time. One foot in front of the other. But I don't… It's been getting worse, and I don't want you to be here with me without knowing that it's all just… up in the air, sometimes."

Before she even really grasps the reality of what it could all mean (and really, she suspected, but to hear it from his mouth…), Sam's reaching out to her and clumsily wiping tears up with a Kleenex before they can even reach her chin. She hates that he's so calm about this sort of thing, but it makes sense; he's had to live with it. She still wishes he'd get angry, or upset, or something. Madison isn't sure if she's an idiot or selfish or thinking that way, but it just sounds more like he's accepting whatever happens to him like it's fated. Like he doesn't mind it even a little.

"Thanks, I'm sorry, I just," she tries, and then takes a deep breath. "I don't want anything to happen to you."

"I know," he says.

"I just love you a lot," she manages.

Sam's eyes widen slightly, then softens. "You do?"

"Don't be dumb, of course I do. I love the hell out of you, Sam. And I'm gonna do whatever I've got to do. Just let me know if you ever need anything, okay?" She blows her nose, mopping up the shambles of her mascara. "Stupid. Asking if I love you; you're dumb. And if you try to do anything crazy while you're not feeling good, I'm gonna kick you across the campus. That's a promise. I'll go feral on your ass."

"Sounds like a fun date," Sam rasps. "I love you, too."

She squeezes his hand, unsure if she feels better or worse. Whatever the case, she's got this guy roped, and he's not gonna be running off on her anytime soon, even if he's the world's guiltiest teacher. And there's no way he's going to deal with this alone, not like he's probably been doing. She gives pause. "Do you want me to contact your brother, or… anything at all? Are you comfortable? Did the doctor say anything about eating?"

Sam shakes his head. "Dean was working a… uh. A job. I don't want to bother him until he's done." She wonders if Dean would even keep working if Sam's in the hospital. She'd like to imagine not. She'd like to imagine he'd haul ass here. If she had to guess, she would say Sam already feels bad enough that he's not able to be there for his family. What little there seems to be; he's only ever mentioned a living brother. A boy named Kevin who's attending college, and a girl named Charlie, who's attending ' _cons_ '. There's a Jody and a Cas. She wonders if they know he's here, trying to move on with his life. If they know he struggles.

She's glad that at least she and their friends know.

"You shouldn't ever have to be alone," she says, more firmly. Her fingers stroke over his knuckles, echoing support. "I'm here to help you."

Sam smiles. "I'm glad. Thank you." And then, a bit more humored: "… Could you grab my glasses? You look like I'm staring through a jellyfish."

Well, her preferences for men in glasses is a blessing.

Men in hospital beds, less desired.

But they'll figure it out.


	21. Have to Try (SamCas 10x22)

**Author's Notes:** Wonder what happened after Dean beat the shit outta' Cas in 10x22? Yeah me too.

 **Warnings for slight blood and suicidal thoughts or ideation, lack of self-worth and depressing thoughts.**

* * *

 **Have to Try**

* * *

Sam rushes into a broken-down door only to find bits and pieces of what made up his brother on the floor — his weapons, his clothes, old records and pictures, like the one of Bobby and him and Dean that is slightly cracked beside his foot. The stench of gasoline deteriorates the sensation of 'home' that Sam had struggled to grasp before. He thinks of burning corpses and salt and last rites, thinks of Dean's grinning young face from a long while back, smeared with ash and blood. ' _Not bad, Sammy, right?'_ Sam's books are sopping in corpse-burning juice. There's some sort of lesson to be learned from it, like that he had deserved to burn instead of Charlie; to burn whole and alive, if it'll appease. Wouldn't be the first time he's watched himself light up, or his world burst into flame.

He snaps out of his despairing trance by Castiel, laid out with blood masking his face, a macabre art piece painted by Dean's fists. And his stomach twists. For a moment he has the thought that Cas could be dead — but then the angel blinks, looking over to him, and Sam wastes no more time in rushing over to his friend's side. It looks… pretty bad, but he finds at least some solace in the fact that Castiel is an angel. A full one, now, with his grace intact. "Cas. Cas, man, are you alright? Jesus. Oh, shit…"

He runs a hand over his hair while Cas gets his bearings straight, slowly sitting up from where he'd lied. Once of Sam's books on demonic possession is next to them, speared through by an angel blade; he doesn't need to be told what happened. He has a good imagination. Cas shakes his head, replying in a fortunately sturdy and strong voice: "I'm sorry, Sam. I tried to hold him here, but… I didn't want to strike him back. The Mark would have — reacted poorly to that." The swelling in his face is already receding, but there's still blood everywhere, and Sam pats the man's shoulder.

"It's — It's okay. I'm just glad you're… Don't move. I'm gonna…" He trails off as he leaves, returning with clean wipes. He doesn't give Castiel much room to complain when he puts a heavy hand on top of his head and gingerly begins to wipe at both the blood and the wounds that have yet to heal. Castiel's eyes flutter, sympathy weighing heavy in the blue there. Sam doesn't realize his hands are shaking minutely until Cas' hand reaches up to still them, quirking a brow at him.

"Sam, _stop_. I don't scar, and I won't get an infection. It will be mostly healed within the next few minutes, so it's not necessary to waste your time."

"I know," Sam admits tiredly, bangs falling into his eyes as he retrieves the ice pack. He feels like his ribs are full of pleading regrets, full of apologies. He thinks about how Dean should have never dragged him out of that church. He should have went with Death; he's known _that_ since Gadreel was cast out, really, but the reality is so much more palpable with one of his friends bleeding beside him. Kevin's gone, Charlie's gone, Castiel just got the shit beat out of him by his friend, and Dean's — Dean's changing all over again. Swallowing hard, he says, "I know, I know, I just — I'm _so_ sorry. This was all on _me_. I wasn't — I wasn't capable enough, I fucked up and I made Dean lose it. I should've protected Charlie; should've kept _you_ out of Dean's way. I'm so sorry."

Castiel shakes his head. "Sam… Dean lost it because he has a bloodthirsty curse on his arm that makes him even _more_ reckless and idiotic than usual. I suppose that's a comical understatement, but… what he does _now_ rests on his shoulders; he had chosen the Mark despite the consequences. It doesn't fall on yours. My safety certainly doesn't. Charlie and I had made our choices. We chose our teams. We all lied together, worked on this together, even knowing the dangers."

Sam clutches the bloody wipe in his hand, silent. He's not so sure he can agree with that. Cas just doesn't _understand_ , didn't really know that Sam's hit the ground fumbling since Dean went to Hell, trying to do right by his brother and falling and tripping and skinning his knees. Sometimes it feels like hellfire's licking at his heels, obligated to snap at him after Sam's many failings. Now Dean hates him, wishes him dead, and Sam — Sam suddenly feels an icy cold grip his chest when he realizes he isn't sure how much of that is the Mark. There's a boy with shaggy brown hair and tears in his eyes to Sam's left, dead and blank-eyed. There's a blood stain still slowly expanding from the hole that burrows straight through his brain; he's just a kid. Sam squeezes his eyes shut, head throbbing.

"It's not enough. It's never enough," he says, "Tell me what I'm supposed to do… Tell me what he needs me to _do_."

Castiel breathes out. "I don't know."

"What should I do…? What am I supposed to do…?"

Cas puts his hand on Sam's arm, rubbing the tense spot there in the hopes that it helps. "I don't know."

Sam gracelessly lets go of the guilt that stopped him from seeking comfort, slouching forward as Castiel accepts his surrender. The angel pats his back, letting him hook his chin over his shoulder and wrap his long arms around him. Sam doesn't cry, though; sure, he'd like to, but he's not sure he can allow such a luxury. It's long enough that when he finally pulls back, the cuts on Cas' face are mostly healed, though he's ashamed to say he'd lost track of time and isn't sure just how long his friend was willing to hang onto him here in this bloody, foul-smelling room. He rubs his face, helping a shaky Cas to his feet.

"We need to… go. We need to do something."

"Yeah," Cas replies, uncertain but willing. "We can try to find him. But, Sam… I don't know that he'd listen to reason now, after what I saw today."

"I have to try," Sam nearly whispers. "He's my brother. I have to try."

He can't just leave Dean alone in the dark with a nightmare leeching off his arm. He has to do something. Even if it puts him on the pyre next. At least he could say he'd have it coming to him.

But… But at least he's got Cas.

It's better than being alone again.


	22. Snippets with Animals

**Author's Notes:** Just as it says on the tin: Sam and his encounters with animals.

* * *

In kindergarten, they had brought in a pony, and Sam had gotten to sit on it for a whole minute. Dean didn't get to, because kindergartners got a special side of the school — Dean was gonna be maaaad, too, because he loves cowboys and horses. Sam pets the mane, fascinated, and asks what its name is. Her name is Abby. Short for Abigail, because her mom's name was Maybell and they thought it sounded pretty together. "I want this one," Sam says. "I can ride it next to my Dad's car."

The teachers all giggle, but he's sort of serious. He wants to race the Impala.

"She's so tall," he admires, from the ground.

Mr. Herrera smiles and replies, "Maybe you'll be as tall as her, when you're older."

Sam thinks that's not very likely. He's always been the smallest.

* * *

The ranch they're staying at for a week is all manual labor, and John's made it a point that they can work for their keep while he's away hunting something or another; Dean's gone and broke his foot on the last big one, so he's hobbling around complaining about everything under the sun. Brooks is out wrangling his animals while Sam makes quick work of a sandwich and a glass of milk Mrs. Brooks fixed up for him, before she'd ran off to work on the horses (and he is still, he notes, not taller than one).

"Catch it, Winchester! Grab it!" a twangy voice hollers. Sam abandons his plate in a flash, hunter training kicking quickly in despite only being at it for two years. He learned mostly out of fear; fear that one day he'll need it and it won't be there to help him survive. To help his family survive. He hunkers down and squints, and suddenly realizes there is a pretty sizable pig barreling toward him — one that should be in its pig pen. "Don't let her get out the gate, or we'll never catch her ass!"

Sam could dispute that they probably could, but he was given a task, so he makes a leap and grabs the rampant beast as it squeals a loud squeal. Which is just pig for "I'm going to take you out with me," because the next thing Sam knows, he's being dragged through cold mud and all he can really do is keep his skinny arms wrapped around the fat body and hope it doesn't slip out of his grasp like toothpaste out the tube. By the time Brooks finally helps drag the runaway pig away, Sam's head to toe in dirt, caked into his hair and crumbling like scabs off his arms and legs.

Dean has a good ol' laugh at Sam's expense, but Sam kind of likes that he got to hunt something down without having to stab or shoot it, for once.

* * *

When Sam's fifteen, the edge of a cliff crumbles under his feet and he falls away from Dean and John's horrified faces, down, down, until everything's red and white hot and his leg and head and body is screaming at him to turn back the clock. When his eyes finally flutter back open, he finds himself half-buried in clumps of heavy dirt and rock; breathing hurts, but he thinks it's because he's just got a lot of shit on him right now. His leg, well, it's not worth trying to move right now; pain swallows up the whole limb, the nerve ends reminding him over and over that there's something horribly wrong with one of the bones in there. He lays there exhausted and half-conscious for a while, water from the small shore lapping his one shoe, wetting his sock and toes. He tries to shift to look at it better; there's blood leaving with the water, when it pulls back away.

He passes out after the third attempt to dislodge himself.

A cold nose wakes him up. shoving into his neck and jawline, and he groans as he reaches out to feel floppy ears and a squinty, fuzzy eyelid shrinking away from his finger.

"I sure hope you're not a monster," Sam coughs, sliding his palm around to sit on a furry back.

Judging by the wet lick across his face, he'd say dog.

"Hang in there, kid! We're coming down! Lassie's got you." Lassie? They seriously named their dog Lassie? Dean'll never shut up about that one; Sam could already hear him hollering _'What's that, Lassie?! Sammy's stuck in a well?!'_ The voice itself is unfamiliar, but it's from high up, so he's thinking Dean and Dad went into a mad panic, hid all the weapons, and called in help. The trails up here are pretty shitty, after all. Could've just been a regular accident, right? He tries to relax, rubbing his hand up and down the white dog's back; she's really pretty. Blurry sometimes, but pretty.

"Hey, Lassie," he slurs. His head is killing him. "You got a good job… Savin' people… hunting idiots who fall down cliffs…"

Lassie pants happily, not leaving his side until the rescue team shimmies their way down.

* * *

"Dean's a jerk! Dean's a jerk!" it squawks.

It being a parrot, vivid green and red and blue, sitting on Sam's shoulder as he taps his fingers on the edge of his laptop. Yet another dead end on finding Dad, but the start of a new case — only it's kind of awkward, see, because their best lead? Is a talking bird. It's been a kind of pattern: person takes in dead old woman's pet parrot, they die horribly, the bird happily tweets their cries for help or pleas for forgiveness. Morbidly awkward stuff. Anyways, they took it, because that's just what they do. Steal colorful birds with a skill in mimicry. Totally normal hunter thing. It could tell them more about the ghost, maybe. Or whatever is doing this. Probably ghost.

"Dude!" Dean sits up, indignant. "You're teaching it to work against me, or what?!"

"Dean's a jerk!" it squawks again.

Sam shrugs. "It just heard me once. I think it just likes me more."

"That's because you're a friggin' weirdo." Dean kicks at Sam's knee from his chair, looking like a pouting kid on timeout. He's only interrupted by a bird flapping and screaming in his face, to which his entire chair tilts over and he's ass-up and Sam's nearly busting a lung, he's laughing so hard. Like, okay, sure, it's kind of scary to have a bird around that has been present at every grisly death… but it likes him more than Dean, and that's pretty much a win.


	23. Hot Topical (Dean&Cas)

**Author's Notes:** Angel Heart left out the part where we watch Dean grumpily help Cas look for birthday presents for teenagers.

So here you go.

* * *

Dean isn't sure just when he contemplates throwing himself in a vat of acid, but it's somewhere around the time Castiel very intensely fans out a dress and asks him what number on the tag would be best suited for a person Claire's age. As it turns out, Daphne (who? Dean thinks) did all the shopping for him, back when he was 'Emmanuel' (oh yeah). Dean isn't so sure Claire's into what Cas is staring at, because it looks like it came out of a gothic Matrix music video, so he nudges Castiel to move on to something less complicated.

"Bracelets, Cas. Or — I don't know, a _hat_. A cool dagger. Maybe a switchblade — " And Cas gives him that squinty judgmental look.

"I am _not_ giving Claire _weapons_ to get herself into trouble with."

"To get herself some good ol' self- _defense_ ," Dean points out. Castiel opts of course to ignore him and look through a bunch of plush dolls that remind Dean rather awkwardly of the Japanese anime porn phase he went through. We don't talk about that. We never talk about that, okay.

"Cas, come on, just get the little spitfire a damn pair of headphones or something, so she can mope in privacy."

"No, Dean. I want to… get her something more…" He struggles to find the words, and ultimately just gives that part up. "It needs to be something special. Birthdays only come once a year."

Dean huffs, "You never celebrate _our_ birthdays."

"You're grown men who don't celebrate anything at all," Castiel says without looking at him. He's got a pair of pizza-patterned socks in his hands, frowning at the distaste of it all. "Why would you ever want to wear food on your socks? What does this accomplish, really? Stepping on pizza isn't ideal."

And Dean is about five seconds from stomping his feet like a five-year-old.

"We've been in here for an hour! Sam's gonna friggin' solve the case without us, if you keep this up — "

"Hush."

"Don't you _hush_ me — "

"Jimmy's memories had, um… a few stuffed animals like these. I remember them specifically from before. Maybe she'll appreciate this, for when she sleeps at night." Castiel holds the stuffed animal up, looking much more content with himself, and Dean has to admit, it's at least good to see the guy is having _one_ moment of relief. Granted, it won't last, will never last, because their lives are shitty, but there's always at least _that_ moment where everything seems like it could actually be okay for five minutes. The Mark on his arm begs to differ, humming impatiently under his coat; and there's also, um… "Cas… I don't think she'll…"

Castiel blinks at him. Oblivious. Idiot. If not mildly endearing as always.

Dean sighs, itching the back of his head.

"Yeah, no, you should get her that."

He should apologize to Claire when Castiel isn't in the room with them later. Even if she's a little turd, at least he can extend his sympathies to awkward angels trying to be _nice_. Maybe she'll just have to get her something actually cool to balance it out. And hey, at least this way Castiel actually feels better about whatever is eating up at him. Probably Jimmy and Amelia, if Dean had to guess. And he's a good guesser.

Castiel nods contentedly. "Great. I will use the credit card."

The credit card that the store clerk slides is declined.

And again, it's declined. A second card is declined.

"… Cas, how much have you _used_ this card?"

"An angel on the road always needs gasoline for his, erm. _Baby_."

"Please stop."


	24. One Bullet (Drabble)

**Note:** Character Death, drabble.

* * *

There was only one bullet left in the gun.

There was only one, one shot, one chance – and he's saved it for Dean when he rolls over, coughing bloody spit into cement. Dean looks at him, red on his lips and a tremble to his body, pleading with his eyes as he croaks, "Sammy, no, no, not lettin' you…"

Sam cocks the gun (just one bullet, just one, just –) and he whispers what Dean had told him once long ago, when things were worse, voice strangled and weak, "Close your eyes, Dean." Dean stares, saying everything Sam ever wanted with his eyes – sorry, love you, you were worth it – and then closes them, and Sam pulls the trigger.

When the demons come back to the room to finish their torture sessions, they'll only have one Winchester left to cut into, and Sam smiles a watery, bloody-toothed smile.


	25. Lopsided (SamJess AU)

**(Note: This is a sequel to Glow, where Sam and Jess have a kid — see earlier entry!)**

* * *

Life goes on. About as well as can be expected, anyway. Mariah gets the chicken pox when she's pretty young, but she grows like a weed — one of the cutest little accidental weeds Sam's seen, anyway. Dean drops by often to see them, and John drops off the map, and Sam knows it eats away at his brother; so he invites him in, kicks his feet off the coffee table. Jess and Mariah and he go to amusement parks, to the beach. Anywhere the car gets them. Sam gets in a harmless little accident when some idiot rear-ends him. Another Moore is born; two, actually. Jessica's aunt loses her battle with cancer in the summertime, and Sam dresses Mariah in her aunt's favorite little outfit she'd bought her. Sam and Jessica graduate college and get pictures blown up for the dresser, and then Sam goes to work; days are long sometimes, and it's not exactly a white picket fence, but it's the happiest Sam's ever been in the entirety of his life; it's a place he belongs, a place with roots. Thriving, heavy roots.

Dean's over today, though it's not the usual. He'd gotten into it bad with a water wraith and it nearly drowned his stupid ass. Sam had spent the day sewing a large cut on Dean's side, and Jess knows enough about their lives to know that this is to be expected sometimes; she doesn't mind it. Maybe because Sam worries too much in her presence when Dean's gone for longer than usual. After Dean's laid up in the guest room with painkillers and a neat row of dental floss sutures across his ribs, Sam immediately transfers into Mariah's room. Cleans his hands of blood and sets her in his lap, adjusting his tie, multi-tasking before he needs to go. She'd just turned three now, heart set on the giraffe doll her uncle had given her at her jungle-themed celebration, hair a bedheaded mess on her head.

"Your hair is a nightmare," he says, running a comb through it. It's coarse brown hair, framing a chubby face that turns upward toward him. Dean tells him over and over that Mariah is like an even girlier version of her dad, but Sam swears up and down she's got her mom's looks. He would never say it outright because it's kind of dreary, but he couldn't imagine that taking after him would be a compliment. He couldn't explain why, couldn't really comprehend his own line of thinking, but it's just… It's not fair to think like that. There's nothing wrong with looking like him. Dean just sees more of the good in that little boy from then, and there's nothing wrong with that, because Sam was just an innocent kid. Before that Christmas.

But… This feeling… like his skin isn't fitting him right —

"You're going to be late," Jess says from the doorway, wandering over to crouch next to them. Sam snaps out of it, blinking up to stare at the lovely pair of eyes as a smile crosses his face.

"Sorry. Trying to figure out how to tame this beast here." He motions to Mariah's hair, hooking his finger around the back of her pull-ups to keep her from running off on him. Jess just shakes her head in amusement, and Sam forgets every negative little thing eating away at his thoughts. Focus on something else — yeah, like getting this little dress over Mariah despite her trying to weasel her way out of it.

"Just go for the pigtails, Sam." Jess grins. "You can never go wrong with pigtails. It's a little girl's best weapon; when I was little, it's all Mom ever put me in until I was at least seven."

"That's pretty cute, Jessie-wessie," he teases lightly. She nudges his arm, but he just smiles and smiles as he reigns in Mariah's wavy brown locks. For a toddler, she sure does have a lot of hair.

Mariah plays around, says, " _Daaaaddy_. Look, look, my gur-affe, s'talking. Mer-mer- _merrrp_."

 _Translating her thought process is a work in progress,_ he thinks. Meanwhile Jess blows out air, sweeping her bangs up with it. "They're crooked."

"Crooked?"

"Look! _Look_ , you've got them all lopsided!"

Sam examines the pigtails carefully (yeah, definitely jacked them up), before he scoops up Mariah and takes off through the house, toward the front door. "Then she's ready for her daycare! My turn to do the drop-off — Winchester-style!" And Jess follows after him, cursing her mini-skirt, demanding he turn his tall self back around before she takes his car keys from him. He's kind enough to let her fix their daughter's hair as she's buckled in, and then Jess loops around to adjust Sam's tie and hair. He explains not to let Dean into the fridge, because he's going to do something with that lobster later tonight. Not that Dean's even really able to move from the bed, and it makes Sam a little guilty to have Jess put up with him.

She waves it off. "You serious? We play card games and watch Family Feud 'til I leave."

The image earns a laugh. "Yeah, well, he's a cheater. Never forget that."

"Daddy, dive," Mariah complains. "Go fas, go dive!"

"And _that's_ my cue."

As he pulls away from the drive, he gives Jess one contented glance before he adjusts his rearview mirror, looks at Mariah watching the scenery pass with a quiet, thoughtful expression. Green-gray eyes reflect the sky. He thinks maybe this is what his Dad saw — what Dean saw — when they looked into the back of the Impala once, a long time ago. The thought is bittersweet, and his lips curl up gently as he pulls away to start another day that is going by far too soon. Even if he feels off, always feels like some piece of a puzzle is missing inside him, or perhaps that there's too many pieces in the first place…

He's complete enough to see the big picture.

And it's _good_.


	26. Graduate (Post-series)

"I've always hated these hats," Sam mumbles, fidgeting with the dark green square fit snugly on his skull; it's leaving his locks untamed and curling out every which way around his jaw, and he has to spit a lock before he settles on just tying his hair back completely. He had never looked forward to graduating Stanford, really, but not because he didn't yearn for it — no, no, it was all about having to walk in front of people in these stupid hats. Dean stares for a moment at Sam with a raised brow before carefully reaching over and adjusting it.

"Yeah, well, deal. You're graduating, aren't you? Not as cool as my GED, but…"

Sam snerks glancing back toward the college campus; not as big as Stanford, not as well-renowned, but he doesn't really care about that anymore. Goals shift, you know? He's lucky enough that Castiel pulled a few cords for him, used some of that angelic prowess to wipe their records clean, remove footage of a 5 o'clock news report of two men gunning down a room of people (and Cas admittedly felt… guilty about that whole thing; Leviathans, you know how it is). The people who remember Sam Winchester won't ever know he's about to walk up there… Hell, he's damn lucky he can even show his face like this in front of so many people, at the end of it all. They're gonna say his name up there. And it's going to be for a good reason for once. That's something he's always wanted, deep down, something he couldn't admit without feeling needy. He needed someone to bless his name, give it something good after its been dragged through all that shit. Sam Winchester. He wants to be proud of that name, someday. It's him and…

He blows out a breath, leaning from foot to foot. If it were Dean, he'd strut up there like he was hot shit, pluck up that diploma, and then do some cheesy stupid thing before he left.

Sam's never been so easy in the middle of attention, preferred to be smaller than his height ever permitted him past the age of seventeen.

Dean flicks him on the edge of his green cap, gathering his younger brother's attention as he pats off Sam's shoulders like he's got dirt there. He doesn't, but Dean sees something there that needs to be swept away regardless.

"You got this. Alright? You're gonna get this."

Hazel eyes meet hazel, and Sam nods. Dean's got stronger crows feet, and his face always seems to grow a little more gaunt each passing year; then again, Sam's does, too, he's pretty sure. Angular, old men, if you can count your late forties as old. For hunters, yeah. For Winchesters who have decades of added time under their belts, abso- _fucking_ -lutely. Dean hesitates, like he wants to say something more, though him just being here and backing Sam up… feels good. It's all Sam needs. If there's just one more thing Dean could offer, it's this, and despite Dean's awkward hesitance Sam is smiling a little.

"You trying to remember a speech from some sports movie or something, coach?"

Dean shoves at him half-heartedly, looking mildly embarrassed. " _Asshole_."

"An asshole who'll be teaching their extended knowledge history and lore to your lame ass." He cocks his head. "… So basically, nothing's changed."

"Nothing but my footprint on your ass; get a move on."

 _Right._ Getting a move on. Sam starts drifting toward the throngs of fellow graduates, glancing back despite the voice in his head telling him not to — it's not like he wants Dean to know how important it is. It's not like he's yearning for that acceptance, that this is okay, that it'll all work out and nothing is wrong with walking up there and listening to his name spoken with campus pride, and nothing's wrong with looking out there knowing someone's watching him and is glad he's up there, and he knows he doesn't exactly deserve it with all the shit they've done through the years, even if it wasn't all bad; because it _wasn't_ , but… —

He looks back, seeing that Dean hasn't moved at all, watching Sam go with his arms folded and his shoulder leaded against the campus flagpole. His brother motions Sam an OK gesture with his hand, though, and Sam thinks maybe it really will all be okay, in the end.


	27. If Only (Sam&Cas)

Short piece; Sam is in the cage.

* * *

"… You want me to lie to you?"

Strange echo, sounds like Cas, trickles into view to sit in front of him as he huddles away in the corner. Blood drips down between his fingers, from his mouth, because his teeth are broken and his jaw is smashed, talking too hard, focus is split like the skin on his arms. Cas doesn't notice, never notices. That's okay. Sam's eyes flutter open while Lucifer coils up like a snake, hissing and bickering with his brother; these are the good moments. Good, because he's forgotten, and Sam would rather everyone forget him than their eye turn on him again. Sam releases his misshapen jaw, curls his fingers around the metal bars jutting from the walls.

Cas. He's sitting patiently, cross-legged, trench laid out behind him across jagged metal. It doesn't cut at his feet, at his calves. Sam used to see Dean, but then Lucifer began to use Dean's face, too… and now it's hard to look at him and remember what Dean's hands have done down here. Sam just nods. _Please, yes,_ he says without words. His tongue twitches, but his throat is wet and red. _Lying is good. Lie away, Cas._

"Everything will be alright, Sam," Castiel says quietly. He cocks his head in that way Sam remembers. Sam's shoulders relax a few inches and he repeats it, but it doesn't sound like anything. Just makes his teeth ache sharply, his crumpled jaw not listening. He says it in his head. Everything will be alright.

"Does it help?" Castiel asks, furrowing his brow. "Talking."

A tear trickles, and Sam nods again, the bruises against his cheekbones and under his eyes darkened.

 _It does help. Helps a lot. I don't know how much longer I can do this… Be… me._

He sucks in a gurgled breath and heaves a sound close to a sob in return.

 _Cas, man, I don't — This is forever. How'm I supposed to…?_

"I wish I had answers. I'm just — you. I'm an old voice in your head, my friend."

Sam leans his head against the sharp wall, feeling the barb slice there, but it's soothing to rest against something now. He closes his eyes. He'd smile if he could. 'My friend'. That's right… he has friends. Living, breathing friends. He has them, has Dean, and all those who've died? They're in a good place. Better place. He reaches out and runs a shaking hand over Castiel's. There's no warmth, just coldness, because the Cage is always so cold. It feels good, to make believe that someone's here. He imagines Castiel swooping in, grabbing him like he did Dean. Putting his hand print on him as he guided him to a happier ending. Dean would have him in a vice-grip, hug him like he'd just witnessed salvation, witnessed a kind God that mended instead of broke, in their lives.

He envisions, maybe, Castiel carrying him up to Heaven. Seeing the fireworks, watching Dean from far away.

Castiel's vision flickers, a sad expression on his face. "It will all be okay."

It's all in his mind, he knows. It's all…

He buries his broken face in his knees — the hallucination drifts like the last trail from a dying cigarette. Sam's sorry, too. He'll never not be sorry. He'll also never realize that someone's hand is on his shoulder, won't even notice how his body is plucked away, ripped through the holes in the wall, left to be fragments of himself. Outside of the Cage, Castiel wills Sam's corpse to mend back together. Sam can hear his voice distantly through the grating:

"It will all be okay. Everything will be alright."

If only it weren't all in his head, he thinks. _If only._


	28. Netflix and Chill (SamCas)

**Note:** POST-BABY. 11x04 tag. Because I already miss poor ol' Cas right now. I am writing-wise half-dead but I figured a few quick prompt fills from long passed would be acceptable. I hope. Cough. Anyway this is Sassy in nature, because I can. :|b

* * *

"I should have known by my last phone call with Dean, that you'd both be in such a miserable shape," Castiel grumbles disapprovingly — he's already carefully cured away the grimy blood from Dean's face and sent him to bed with sloppy grilled cheeses heavy in his stomach, and that just leaves the long-limbed Winchester left with him under the single kitchen light. It's dark out, but Castiel admittedly would not know as much. He's barely looked out beyond the bunker.

Sam, as expected, just gets a humored sort of look on his face. Like he finds the angel's impatience with the Winchesters and their dances with sharp objects — like _claws_ — endearing. It makes it harder for Castiel to scold like he means it (and anyway, Castiel knows he's only rescued from the same because he heals much more quickly than the brothers do).

"We really did try not to get into too much trouble this time," Sam replies in earnest, and Castiel just offers him the driest of unbelieving looks before he pulls his sleeve back by the cuff just slightly. Foolish hunters, always getting themselves into trouble with the nastier of Eve's creations. He expects no less, and for some reason, that's strangely soothing despite how restless he's been. Some things never change.

"May I?"

"Of course."

… Once again — some things never change. Castiel feels a cacophony of so many things, when Sam closes his eyes patiently and waits for the angel's hand to touch to his forehead. To cure him, despite the times that his hands have done no such thing for the Winchester. May these hands never be used to hurt his friend ever again. He brushes the pads of his fingers gingerly over Sam's brow and the light from his grace burrows and shines through the small, insignificant fissures in Sam's damaged skin. Wounds mend, bruises de-bloom, and then it's just him as usual.

He feels like he should say something here. He feels weirdly grateful, suddenly.

His hand just twitches away from Sam's face instead, as the man opens his eyes. The glance he gives him is thanks enough, and he passes over the mug of hot cocoa that Dean had made in a delusional, eager and half-exhausted flurry in the kitchen… before being sent away to sleep like an over-excited child on a Sunday night, anyway. Sam sips his lukewarm beverage and Castiel clears his throat in an entirely too human way.

"Would you like to watch something? I've gotten a bit tired of watching procedural dramas. And — Dean had told me that you would love to _'Netflix and chill'_ tonight after your difficult day."

Sam rather dramatically sprays a mouthful of cocoa all over the counter.


	29. Plastic and Felt

_Authors Note: Takes place sometime in S7! No big warnings.  
_

 **Plastic and Felt**

* * *

If you told Sam he would be babysitting a few shivering kids in the middle of the night — in the middle of the _woods_ — he would have… begrudgingly believed it, because that sounds about how well his luck goes, but he still has to admit, this was not how he planned to spend this wendigo hunt. Then again, it was kind of a blur, all panic and blood and Sam pulling the kid away just as the camp counselor got his throat slashed open.

Dean's out there with Bobby right now, combating some seriously bad cannibal mojo; meanwhile on the flipside, here he is, wendigo-proofing the Impala and making sure none of these kids get all flight-not-fight on his ass. Once it's all secure, he pokes his mildly bloody head in through the window and carefully observes them. The oldest is maybe nine, the rest easily trailing after six or seven. They'd just seen some of the most brutal stuff a kid could really see; the oldest one, well, he is only barely older than Sam was when he learned the truth about the evils of the world.

His sympathy is a vice-grip on his heart. Lucifer keeps trying to get his attention elsewhere tonight, but he's sharp, soft eyes focused on the two girls clinging to each other for dear life. "Don't worry. My brother's going to get your friend back," he tells the eldest, and he just nods shakily. He believes Sam. Sam thinks he does, anyway. Sam wants to believe himself, too, because if he's wrong… then Dean's… No. He doesn't want to second-guess. They're good at working around wendigos. They're chum change, compared to the end-of-the-world stuff.

He disappears for just a moment to rummage through the trunk for spare flare rounds (and keep himself from thinking of Bobby or Dean injured or worse) when he comes across the plastic bag from their earlier trip through a misleading dollar store where everything was over a dollar. Poking out of the corner of bag was a silly gag idea Dean had, pimping out the car with those adhesive glowing stars. He bites his lip and examines the packaging before returning to the car with a slim smile.

"Say, Gloria," he says, and then offers the small girl the package. "Could you guys help me out a little? This is, um… It's kind of weird, but these are wendigo-proofing stars. They'll glow here, keep you safe. Do you think you guys can be hunters for a second and put these everywhere for me? You never know."

Gloria hesitantly takes them from Sam's large hand, timid but focused now on the task offered to her. The other little girl and her friend in the front seat are quick to turn and help her, applying the pointed little things all over the roof above their heads. The older boy looks at Sam — doesn't smile, but nods, solemn and appreciative. Dean would like this kid a lot, Sam thinks, patting his palm against the window frame.

When Dean and Bobby eventually come limping back, grumpy but alive if not bruised, they all part ways with just a 'thank you' and a wave (as it usually is). It takes them dropping Bobby off and Dean hitting a gas station in the dead of night before the tired hunter blinks and cranes his head around to look at the greenish glow behind him.

"… Dude, man, I was looking forward to putting those up myself!"

"What are you, five?"

Dean cranks the seat back, sighing into it as he relaxes beside Sam.

"Shuddup and check out this awesome view."

Eyelids feeling heavy, Sam peers up at their faux nighttime sky, composed of shiny plastic and old felt. A smile quirks his lips, and despite Lucifer's voice prodding at the base of his skull, he falls asleep restfully.


	30. Pray (Pre-series)

Weechesters. Sam's prayers.

* * *

John sits, prays, waits. ' _Please let this be the time. Please let this be the one who did it, who killed her. Please let me catch this bastard and end it all. End it for Mary. Please, god, if you gave a shit about anything at all, please, please please.'_ He loses track of the _pleases_ and solemn, grudging _amens_. He has never been as religious as Mary was. He lost most of that faith when he also lost her. But sometimes, when he thinks he's close… so close… he prays.

 _'_ _Please, please, please let me get him.'_

He returns from a hunt and enters the motel room — empty-handed, arm wounded and no sign of the thing that took his Mary from him — and gives up his words to God. Bitterness seeps up and out of his throbbing wound and he thinks: there's _no one_ out there looking out for him in this fight.

Sam sits up quietly on his side of a shared bed as John hushes him, tells both him and Dean to close their eyes and sleep. The eight-year-old breathes out shakily but obeys, a slight smile curling his lips in the dark of the motel room, because it had _worked_. It had really _worked_. He nestles down into the itchy covers and cups his hands together. _'Thank you, God,'_ he thinks quietly. _'Thank you for answering my prayer. Thank you for bringing my dad back. Thank you, thank you, thank you.'_


	31. Just Keep Swimming

Just Keep Swimming (SPN Fanfic)

 **AUTHOR NOTE:** It's a quick fill for an .com prompt! The prompt was 'Just keep swimming'. Which is now the title. A-yep.

* * *

 _Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep swimming —_

Left foot, kick. Right foot, kick. Breathe in. Cough out. Muscles achinf, lungs twisting, the inside of his nose is raw and burning with salty water; tastes like he's trying to cleanse the bacteria from an infected tooth. He's an inky figure battling black waves, and he can see the lights of the pier, but he has no faith that Dean will ever be able to see where the fae creature had flicked him. If he gets there on time. If he even realizes Sam was cast out into the ocean at midnight, weighed down heavy by a hunter's thick jacket and jeans that feel like they weight a ton.

Sam's never been very lucky. Dean might just turn and rush away to the next place Sam could be. Because if he's not at the pier, then where is he, right? Surely not in the starting waves of the fucking Pacific Ocean.

He gasps a strangled sound, the muscle in one leg corded so intensely that he goes under a few times. How long as he been trying to get back? Is he cursed? Can't ever reach the shore? How long has he been watching it, how long, as the lights bobbed far beyond his sight?

 _— swimming, swimming —_

For some reason, he's got a Pixar movie quote stuck in his head after about an hour.

In Dean's annoying, sing-song voice.

 _What do we do, Sammy? We swiiiiiim._

"Sh-shut up, Dean, you quoted that for th-three weeks straight…"

He tries to float, he does, but it seems like the moment he goes still and holds the air in his lungs, he starts drifting all over again. Despite how much he wants to sink from the neck down, his head still keeps burning through thoughts. Finding Nemo came out in 2003. Jess made him watch it on their third date, because she was an art major and she was infatuated with Disney. He ended up watching it on some washed out television in Denver, Colorado, when Sam still had shaggy bangs and had to pretend seeing the movie a second time wasn't secretly lancing daggers through his heart to drain out the reminder.

But Dean, he just kept quoting Dory, like, a month straight. Totally misspoke Sam's name every chance he got, all of course girl names, because that's Dean for you — Susan, Sally, Sandra. And for every pissy face Sam made, on the inside, it made the pressure on his chest a little more bearable. That was 2005. He was just a kid back then, really. 2005.

He sinks back under the water, but he swears when he resurfaces he sees Dean's silhouette. Sometimes, anyway. Is he getting any closer? He opens his mouth to call out, but he just rasps, swallows his voice down and is forced to inhale by his own betraying body. He thinks he hears _Dean's_ voice, but maybe it's just in his head, because everything seems too pitch black now for him to be conscious or alive or whatever. Surely he'd see the stars in the sky. Or the flicker of lights on a water-damaged wooden dock. Dean's teeny tiny voice is probably a trick of the monster of the week. But at least nothing's choking him today. It's 2016, and if he doesn't try to kick again, it'll be the second year listed on his tombstone. Next to Mom and Dad, maybe. Cremated, of course, once Dean confirms the bloated, weird body is actually Sam and not… the monster of the week…

 _"Hey Sam, you know what you gotta do when life gets you down?"_

Just keep swimming?

Well, he sinks. Like a fucking _rock_.

* * *

He wakes up sliding his hands, and the first thing he notices is that he's coughing water into his own eyes. The second thing is that he's coughing water into Dean's eyes, too. He sort of expects Dean to pull away and whine about it, but he just smooths back Sam's hair and rolls him like a rumpled rug to expel the rest of the black, oozing sea.

"Whr… Dearh…"

"I don't speak Klingon, Sam," Dean's voice crackles with sweet relief, rubbing circles in Sam's back. Sam's eyelids feel swollen. He's too tired to open them, but he tries for another drag of air. The wooden pier under his hands feels curled and soft like carpet. There's glass that plucks a drop of blood from his palm. He breathes in and it smells like a can of glade air freshener.

Every word sticks to his innards, but he forces them out.

"Tried t'swim… Saw you on the pier… running…"

He feels Dean's hand rub over his hair over once more, the motion a fully fledged sentence gone unspoken. He pats Sam down like he's looking for something, and then the scent of burning herbs and leathery hide finally gets him to open his eyes, and he stares blearily at the remains of a hex bag up in smoke beside the broken picture frame of a family and their witch. Or a witch and her family. Whatever was left.

Dean just asks, "What, Sam? What water? What do you mean, a pier? Sam."

Sam checks out. Black. Too tired to explain. He just groans instead. But he feels Dean carry his full weight on his back, out of the dead witch's house, back towards their own home, waiting so patiently where cement waves meet the grassy shore. Sam flops bonelessly against his side of the Impala and sleeps the rest of the way back, dreaming about Californian spring breaks and Dean's heavy palm checking his temperature every other hour, skin dry and jacket warm.

He sinks, but he doesn't start drowning.

That's not so bad.


End file.
